Sulis
by robspace54
Summary: A face in the crowd could be that person we know, but what if they are someone else entirely?
1. Chapter 1

**Murder in Suburbia was produced for ITV from 2004 to 2005 and Doc Martin is produced by Buffalo Pictures.**

**This story is a mere flight of fancy and since it is fanfiction, I can claim no rights from the producers of MiS or DM. The act of writing this story in no way attempts to infringe on the copyright holders in any way, shape or form.**

**I was always struck by the amazing similarity of a certain actress in one show as well as the other...  
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000

In the Middleford CID Division, Emma Scribbins glanced across her desk at her mate. "How was your weekend in Bath?"

Her colleague, DI Kate Ashurst, grimaced, before she spoke. "Fine," she snapped.

"Fine?" Scribbs asked. "Seems to me you were mighty fired up to get away. Stonehenge as well, wasn't it?" Scribbs could not help but notice that Kate looked tired as well as upset. "Late nights, that it? A lot of drinking, eating, snogging, and the rest?"

Kate snapped, "I don't want to talk about it."

Scribbs leaned back in her swivel chair and crossed her arms. "Ash… what's happened?" She knew that Kate and her guy friend had planned a weekend away for some while, and it was very clear that things were in the bog in those quarters. "Want to talk about it?"

"Nothing and no," Kate reacted even more forcefully. She jerked open a desk drawer, rooted around inside and pulled out a file folder then slapped it down on her desk. "Nothing happened at all!" Her slim hands flipped the folder open. "Now what about this breaking and entering?" She flipped a few pages in the thin folder. "Collins Grove - that's the posh place over to the west."

Scribbs leaned forward across her desk and grumbled. "So much for your relaxing weekend. You've been wound tight as a spring since the… uhm, snog Boss thing."

Ash glared at her and snarled, "If you are ready to start working, I was thinking that these breaking and entering cases _are_ tied to that body they found in the pond to the west of Middleford."

Scribbs screwed up her face and sighed.

Ash gave her a dirty look. "What? Work too much for you? This is what we are paid to do."

"I know. Not even in our patch, Kate. Way the other side of Middleford, out past the old RAF base."

Their semi-argument was interrupted by their superior DCI Sullivan, who stuck his head into their work area. "Scribbs; Ash," he nodded at them.

"Morning Boss," answered Scribbs. "And how are you today?"

The Boss answered, "Doing alright. Ready for some legwork, you two? Got a hot one for you."

Ash closed the folder and pulled out a pad and pencil. "Shoot." She was still embarrassed by the way she'd grabbed the Boss and laid an extremely deep and sloppy kiss on him last week.

Totally unprofessional of course! But all the same the way he grinned at her, made her flash on the feel of his lips, the smell of his aftershave… she shook herself. "What you got?"

To his credit, Sullivan didn't react then or now. "I can see that you two are in fine spirits, but none the less we press on."

"Sorry Boss," Ash responded. "Mondays."

He nodded. "I know the feeling. Now to work, that breaking and entering ring may be connected to that body found by the dis-used RAF base. The SOCO boys have matched footprints to the ones in our B&E houses. I need you to take this one on; top priority," the Boss said. "PC Gallimore will have the details for you at the scene. Now scoot."

Kate smiled briefly at her partner, whose mouth had fallen open. "See?" Kate smirked. "Told ya."

Scribbs shrugged herself into her coat. "Bloody psychic you are," she muttered and Ash stuck her tongue out at her as she headed for the door.

000

He hated medical conferences and this one appeared to live down to his expectations. They were generally too long, too crowded, and too little actual medical information was imparted over a weekend in stuffy meeting rooms. He sighed deeply as he stared at the schedule and quickly scanned the titles and abstracts. As he did so he felt a sharp pang. "Rubbish," he grunted for most of the topics were either lightweight in nature or totally out of date, "Complete and utter."

Just then his mobile rang so he snapped it on. "Ellingham."

"Mart! It's Chris Parsons."

"Hello Chris."

"How do the seminars look?"

"This is a total waste of my time," he growled at his oldest and best friend; that is if he had an actual friend.

"Surely there must be something there that will tickle your fancy?" Chris giggled.

Martin held his tongue. It wasn't his boss's fault that this seminar, or something similar, was part of his annual continuing education requirement. His eye fell to the bottom of the sheet. "There may be one, uhm, perhaps two that…"

"Told you."

"Aren't a TOTAL waste of time," Martin finished.

Chris nearly laughed. "Martin you have to understand that _most_ of the GPs down this way haven't the experience you have. Some of your lot will actually benefit from those courses. Besides I hear the Christmas Market in Bath is very nice."

Martin glared at his mobile.

Into the resounding silence, Chris said, "Well, all things considered, you need a break, even if it is just Friday until Sunday. How are you, by the way? Diana suggested we should have you over for supper."

Martin snapped, "Good bye," and dropped his mobile back into his pocket with a harrumph.

He was turning towards the front door when he saw her, passing by on the pavement, and his entire body went to full alert. There she was, moving in a confident stride, in a new black coat, or at least one she might have bought recently. And he'd never known her to wear a scarf like that one, looped in a half-hitch around her slim neck, but it was a cold day.

He pushed aside travelers who crowded hotel reception, squeezing around querulous children, suited men, and harried looking women. "Make way," he muttered, along with a small push or two, and finally reached the portal.

Lunging outside he was assaulted by the smell of cinnamon, other herbs and spices, candles or such which nearly made him sneeze, plus the aural hubbub of the packed square next to the Abbey.

The street was crowded, jammed with people compressed against the building by the popup chalets of the Market. Standing still he was buffeted side-to-side by all the people passing him. Standing on tip-toe he could just see her chestnut hair piled atop her head some distance away, moving straight ahead, so he swiftly made pursuit with the ancient Abbey at his back.


	2. Chapter 2

She had been enjoying her stroll along the river from Pulteney Bridge down to the Abbey. It was cold, cloudy, and breezy, but the forecast promised sun later. Bundled up, she wished she'd remembered the gloves in her suitcase, but on the other hand if Michael had not reneged on this trip then she'd have had a warm hand to hold hers or better yet be inside and snuggled under the blankets with him.

They'd talked and talked about going away but then he started getting cold feet. He had to work, or his mates were going on a ramble, or… or… Oh, what was the use? His stories kept changing and finally she'd forced the issue. Turned out he had changed his mind – and not just about the trip – but about her as well.

She sighed for Kate knew that she had been putting a lot more into Michael than he was putting into her, so to speak. She was the one who had to arrange things, where to eat, when to meet, her place or his; just like this trip. It finally hit her that she was not the destination for him, merely a stop along the way. Story of my life, she mused.

Well that bugger can just sod off! She stopped along the River Avon and took in the view. Though it was early December there were still narrowboats out on it. Many were decorated with colored lanterns and lights, lit up through it was morning. She was amazed at the great number of stalls set up in the Christmas Market, so it followed that the river boats would follow suit in a holiday way. She dug into her bag and pulled out the guidebook. She read, 'The River Avon is actually the _River River_ since when the Romans arrived here, sometime before 70 AD, they asked the local Celts what was the name of the river. The locals told them _affon_, their word for river. So the City of Bath is graced with the lovely doubly-named flow.'

She ambled past the chancel end of Bath Abbey then turned towards the square where the popup Christmas Market chalets were erected. If she was without Michael, at least she could start her shopping for the Holiday. Still, she thought, it would have been nice if he'd come, even if his heart wasn't quite as invested as might have been. Biting her lip, she put her head down and walked on, her boots making sharp reports on the paving.

Somewhere along the square, it didn't take Kate long to realize that she was being followed. She was a Detective Inspector, so following a suspect was second nature, and having situational awareness was first nature. Her colleague Scribbs could be loose at times, but Kate was always on the ball – timing, behavior, and surroundings were her bywords – as she reminded Scribbs over and over. When she heard the determined tread of stiff leather shoes behind her coming up fast, she stopped briefly to glance at a shop window, and from the corner of her eye stole a quick look.

Her shadow was tall and broad, well togged out in a nice grey suit, white shirt and red tie. He had short hair, rather greyish-blonde, blue eyes. About mid-forties and he didn't look like a mugger, but one never knew. She rapidly sifted through the faces from recent investigations but came up dry. Had she met him somewhere? If so she didn't recall the encounter and those ears of his were a dead giveaway. So a decided _no_ – not someone she knew – but it looked as if he knew her.

She skipped along the narrow street her boots ringing on the cobble stones, marching past the golden stones of the Bath buildings. They called it 'Bath stone" from a local quarry and as it aged in sunlight, it took on a soft golden color, so most of the city fairly glowed like the sun, at least where they had scrubbed a century plus of grime off the facings.

She passed more shops, a camera store, a café and a trinket shop, all quite busy and though the crowd had thinned a bit, the man still followed. She trudged straight ahead with the Roman Baths on her right, under the faux-Roman arch adorned with a bearded face and then turned right onto Stall Street. This street was even more chockablock with holiday-goers and vendors. Unlike Abbey square, here the sellers had tents erected, no wooden chalets, so there were plenty of objects to block the man's line-of-sight.

She increased her speed slightly, skipped across the street, and ducked into a shop opposite, one with large windows filled with display racks. Inside, she turned and saw her pursuer walk past on the opposite side. He stopped, clearly puzzled by her disappearance, and turned this way and that, jostled by shoppers, obviously looking for her.

Well, she thought, did you know you were following a very smart and savvy Detective Inspector?

"May I help you Madam?" an unctuous male voice asked her. The man had approached so silently Kate had not heard him. She saw a reedy man inspecting at her at close quarters.

"No," she pretended to examine the rack of cards in front of her.

"Hmm, what particularly are you looking for?" the man needled. "We have some very nice stationary just over here…"

"Bye," Kate told him and fled the shop. She looked to her left and the tall man in question made the ill-considered decision to turn just then and see her.

He was about sixty feet away, diagonally across the street; his arms held at his sides, slightly leaning back on his heels and he looked stiff, with a questioning look on his face.

Kate always got high marks in Unarmed Combat, and her handbag had her usual clutch of necessary kit, except her gun was back in Middleford. So if it came to that and fists, knees, or feet might not stop him, there was the weight of a swung and loaded handbag to fell him.

The man now got a curious look on his face and Kate could not decipher it. Was it longing? Desire? Misery? For nearly twenty seconds they stared at one another across a teeming mass of people.

Kate impressed his appearance on her memory. Six-three tall perhaps, fifteen stone or so, a somewhat fleshy face, thick lips and a slightly crooked mouth. Ears were large and sticky-out as she had noticed before. He looked very stiff, maybe cautious, the way he stood there, hands held at his sides. Yes, memorable, but he was not in her memory. So who was he? Why was he so interested in her? Perhaps he was just a perve.

Whatever his face expressed, it was swiftly struck off, for he ducked his head, turned on his heel and trooped away. She noticed that briefly his shoulders slumped and his head went down, then his rigid posture was resumed as he fled.

"Not who you expected? Well who then?" she muttered. "Or did I catch you out? Got a thing for brunettes have we?"

She avoided getting bowled over by a large woman dragging two tikes by the hand "Come on, hurry up!" the woman was shouting at her exasperated kids. "We can't be late! We have a spot at one and we can't miss Father Christmas!"

Kate guessed they were going to Santa's Grotto, down in SouthGate Shopping Centre, which the tourist flier had listed so prominently in her B&B.

Whinging, the children followed, towed along like a ship's dragged anchors in a storm.

Kate paused for just a few seconds then made a decision. "Right," she said aloud. "Let's find out, shall we?" then she set off after him. Kate lengthened her stride and saw the man turn back towards the Abbey turning at the north corner of the Roman Baths.

Discreetly, she stayed sixty or more feet behind, but with the chill in the air, and everyone bundled up, this man – wearing no overcoat, plus his height – was readily seen. Too easy, she thought. He's not trying to hide one bit! What is your game?

As she hiked along she could not help but think that the way he forged along he was a man on a mission or perhaps he was running for his life.


	3. Chapter 3

At least Louisa might have smiled, or waved, or crossed the street to say, "Hello, Martin" in that wonderful voice of hers; but no, she acted as if he was a stranger. Perhaps that was true in many ways so he tried not to put on a grumpy face as she stood there looking at him. He expected – _something_ – but there was nothing; not a flicker of recognition from her.

He knew then that it was _really_ over – once and all. No wedding, no romance, no… no Louisa. How in Heaven's name would he get through the awful hum-drum days in Portwenn without even a glimpse of her face, her hair, or hearing her voice? To see her in Bath was pure chance, pure… he sighed… the pure and _perfect_ caprices of cruel Fate.

She stood just feet away in her new coat and scarf and he was frozen in shock, more by her blank look than by anything else. Not a flicker of a smile or grin or even a sour look on her; just _nothing_.

He sighed in despair and at that moment he knew it all was over. _Finis_ - the end. They'd each jilted the other just a few weeks ago – the day they were to be married. So she left Portwenn, slunk off early on a Friday morning, up to Town; to the big city.

Suck it up, Ellingham! Grow a backbone! Just turn yourself around and walk away and don't look back. But he couldn't; not that easily. Just to see her… he ought to cross the street, push aside the jammed shoppers, throw his arms about her, and talk to her… do _SOMETHING_.

And do just what exactly, Ellingham? Say you're glad to see her? Ask how she was getting on? Make small talk about her new job in London? Discuss the horrid weather in Cornwall, or the unusually large number of flu patients this season, or the way that people in the village are making snarky comments about how he had driven their Head Teacher off?

All this flashed in his head in a few seconds, his heart beating a frantic pace and Palmer sweating breaking out all over him, while people shoved him back and forth as he stood stiff as a statue.

He looked at her standing motionless and he knew that by her lack of expression or even gesture that she was not pleased to see him; not happy that he'd bollixed up what must have been a planned and pleasant weekend for her.

She had chosen to leave Portwenn but first to _not_ marry him. For that matter _he_ had likewise chosen not to marry _her_. Somehow he had known that he'd make her too unhappy and that her free spirit would be crushed by his stolid ways. So he chose not to destroy her. Why _did_ they get engaged? Or have sex for that matter? Was it purely the release of sexual tension or the deeper meaning of two souls reaching out for affection?

His mouth had gone dry but his eyes felt wet and now there was a roaring in his ears. Rejection; a feeling he knew all too well.

Louisa had left the village without saying goodbye. Not a peep out of her and his first sign was a question from the Fish Seller that afternoon. 'Say Doc, wot you think of Miss Glasson moving up to Town? Bet that blowed you down when you got the news. Am I right?'

She likely left Portwenn to escape; to be free - get away from _him_ _and_ the village gossips. The local girl-pack harped on him daily that he had driven _her_ _away_. Well, he knew that was a fact.

He stared at her another second or two, trying to freeze the image in his head, then with a will that took the largest bit of self-control he might ever muster he turned away, put one foot in front of the other and strode away. He angrily snorted air from his nose, as he pushed through the throngs of shoppers. A Christmas Market! Bah, he thought. If they had gotten married then this would be their first Christmas as a couple. But there would be none of that for them; now or ever.

He marched quickly, not a backwards glance, turned right at the corner of the Pump Room and tried to wedge himself past the queue waiting to enter the restaurant. He knew that tourists flocked here to eat calorie and fat-laden finger sandwiches, clotted cream on scones, and fruit tarts, all washed down with sugary tea. He shuddered at the thought of the damage those within would be doing to their arteries clogging them with cholesterol and to their waistlines. It was only by making such a judgment could he distract himself from the pain he felt – and a mighty pain it was.

Next he had to negotiate around the queue for the Baths themselves, those lined up to inspect the ancient flowing spring which gushed water from the Earth at 46 degrees C, truly a miracle in itself. Getting around them he nearly bowled over two American tourists nattering on in their odd accents about the conversion of Pounds to Dollars. Bloody Colonials, he thought. Go home where you belong!

Having passed most of that mess then he was faced with the city square filled with the popup chalets the town was so proud of. More wasted money he was sure, not just on excesses of food, but on bric-a-brac, holiday decorations, boughs of holly and pine, wooden gewgaws and toys, Christmas jumpers in garish designs, and silk scarves that anywhere else might be two Pounds apiece but here went for a tenner.

He felt almost faint as he wedged his bulk around the people who hemmed him in on all sides in the narrow market aisles. It was like being under the stairs again, he felt. He didn't suffer claustrophobia but rather the breathless effect was similar while his head pounded with pain.

Faced with an absolute blockage in the aisle-way ahead, he found himself next to a chalet selling stuffed dolls of all sorts – bears, reptiles, and fish – as well as other toys. On impulse he snatched up a small dolphin toy with a silly grin on its face.

Dolphins; Louisa always remarked about the dolphins in or near the harbor. He turned it so he could read the tag. £4 it read.

"You want that sir?" the seller asked, an old woman whose ruddy face and white hair reminded him of Aunt Joan. "Good luck is dolphins," she cackled. "They say that dolphins have rescued sailors lost in the ocean."

"Likely based on the mythology of the Greek God Dionyus," he grunted in return. "He was attacked by pirates so turned them into dolphins and bade them rescue shipwrecked seamen. A pagan belief and not based on fact."

The woman laughed. "Oh so you don't believe in legends then? Well my da was in the Royal Navy, the Great War, and he told me…"

Martin fingers idly stroked the dolphin. "No." She would like this, he thought.

"And we have these nice little toy sets – Roman soldiers?" she offered. "Nice for the kiddies. Or these resin casts of the head of _Sulis Minerva_? Healing waters and all that? Many a cure here you know down the ages."

"I suspect instead that ancient peoples were merely impressed by hot water flowing from the ground." Saying that he stopped, for it almost echoed what Bert Large would have said. 'Go with the flow, Doc.' When the Romans invaded Britain and got to the site of Bath, they found the local people were worshiping the thermal spring, the only one in England. So they had built a temple here and made it a spa and health center, such as it was in the First Century. Then Modern Bath was developed in the 1800s into the gleaming town that it was now.

Martin sighed, overcome by the strain of the last few lonely and stressful weeks. "I'll take the dolphin," he said for some reason and gave it to the woman who inspected the price. Perhaps he could give it to Joan, he thought if for no other reason to buy it. He fumbled out four Pound coins and dropped them into her waiting hand.

The woman smiled at him. "Fine. I bet your lady friend will like this."

"I've no lady friend," Martin puffed. Not anymore he thought – not any bloody more.

The old woman beamed. "Looks like you do," she said and gave the toy to the woman standing at his elbow.

Martin started for Louisa was standing right next to him and her face did _not_ look happy.

"Louisa!" he nearly shouted at her in joy to see her so close. "I thought… thought you didn't want to see me!"

Kate Ashurst replied gruffly, "Two questions. _Who_ are you and _why_ were you following me?"


	4. Chapter 4

Scribbs slid into the Vauxhall and belted herself in while Ash picked up directions to the body find. She shook her head at the strange story Ash had been telling her back in the office. "Ash, Ash, Ash. What have I told you about picking up strange men?" she was muttering just as her partner slid into the car.

"What's that?" Ash asked.

"Nothing."

"Well you were muttering something."

Scribbs started the car and pulled from the Police parking lot. "Oh, I was just wondering what got into you."

"About what?"

"This weird guy, the stalker."

"He _wasn't_ a _stalker_. He, well, he _thought_ I was someone he knew."

Scribbs looked hard at Ash. "Oh? If that's so then why did he so upset you? Because, Ash, you seem quite cheesed-off about the whole thing. Who was he? Come on; give."

Ash sighed. "I don't want to talk about him. Let's just concentrate on this case."

Scribbs got into heavy traffic on the Motorway out of town. "You're a hard one, you are."

Not always, thought Ash. "Not as much as you might think Emma," she said to herself.

"What's that?" Scribbs said.

"Just drive, Scribbs." Kate looked away from her friend and bit her lip. It had been an odd weekend; unsettling in some ways. Ash started twisting her hands together nervously and she didn't really know why.

After getting out of town the pair got to the closed and very ex-RAF field. It had been going to weeds for years and the local council wanted to develop the acres of empty space, but as usual red tape tied up any transfer of government property. Their car followed the torn up drive onto the base, past a constable who let them in under a rusty orange lift gate.

"Is the whole place fenced like this?" Emma asked.

"Typical waste," Ash said. "Spend millions of quid to build it up then let it go. Then keep people out of it."

"It was an earlier time though. Big bad Russians against the good guys."

Scribbs drove along the meandering road following orange arrows propped up at the turns. "I thought this place went back to the War?"

Ash shook her head. "No. This was all new in the fifties. They had fighters and bombers poised here 24/7 just in case."

They passed falling down buildings and some rusted fuel tanks until they saw police vehicles parked ahead.

"Well thank God the balloon never went up. Duck and cover and all that crap," Emma grunted.

"We're still here," Kate agreed, "so it must have done some good."

PC Gallimore smiled as the women drove up to two police vans and a patrol car. "Oi! Just my lucky day! Middleford's finest!" he shouted when he saw the detectives.

Scribbs grinned at him as she climbed from the car. "The Boss knew _you_ weren't up to the job, so he sent _us_!"

Gallimore laughed as he often needled the two women. It was all in fun, of course. He quite fancied both of them – strictly on a professional level, but if his old lady knew he was ogling the CID birds she'd have him by the short hairs. "I suppose you want to see where they found the body. Couple of midnight teens, boy and girl, saw him floating out there."

Ash and Scribbs inspected the pond, perhaps seventy feet across. "Stinks," said Ash.

"Yep," sighed Gallimore waving a hand in front of his nose. "The runway over there drains down this way. Imagine all the muck down in there. We had a diver in there and all he found was a dead badger and some ancient tyres."

Ash inspected the file of photos Gallimore handed her. "So the kids saw him floating."

"Right. The kids found him and then saw his car tucked over in the brush. But he didn't drown, says the medicos." The PC rubbed his face. "That's why Sullivan brought you lot in. The kids were snogging over here," he pointed towards a small ruin of brick. "Seems there are plenty of holes in the fences plus the gate we drove thru. The kids rode out on the boy's motorbike. On a night of a full moon, I guess they thought it was romantic."

Ash rolled her eyes at Scribbs. "And they found a body."

Gallimore grimaced. "Stuff of nightmares. Dead man is one James Edward Moore; sales rep for a drug company. They found his car over there," he pointed to a gravelly spot. "Looks like he came out here for a breather."

Ash read more of the file. "The body was found without shoes?"

The PC nodded. "Weird. They were in his car."

Scribbs looked over Kate's shoulder at a sketch map drawn of the area. "Sullivan said something about footprints."

"Come this way," Gallimore replied. "The SOCO boys came back doing a sweep and found prints – foot and bike."

Scribbs stepped over a squishy spot, grimacing. "This will ruin my shoes."

Gallimore laughed and pointed down at his Wellies. "Come prepared I say."

Ash squatted down to peer at the prints. "Large, aren't they?" she asked a tech named Johns who was kneeling in front of one; a large case open next to him.

The Scene of Crime Officer was lifting a plaster cast taken from one. "Oh yes; a whopper. Maybe an eleven or a twelve," he grunted. "So far we've only found four good ones plus the bike tyres. The Bills messed the scene up pretty well, and the ground here is quite muddy, so not many have been preserved."

"Any ideas?" Scribbs asked him.

"The Boss told us the prints might match the B&E prints," Ash added. She turned back to Johns who was gingerly placing the cast into a shallow plastic bin. "Got a guess?"

Johns nodded. "I do. I pulled decent prints at two of your Breaking and Entering houses." He pointed a gloved finger to the tread pattern, now cast in relief. "I'd say these are the same shoes. Smooth tread, rounded toes, and these?" He poked at indentations. "These are sockets of a bike clip."

Ash stood up. "So this guy, assuming it's a man, is serious about cycling."

"Unless it's a very tall woman," answered Scribbs.

"With big feet," Johns laughed. "You never know."

Scribbs stood and gingerly walked over to firmer ground. "And the bike was here?"

The tech said, "I've already got those tracks cast. Narrow tyre. Fairly smooth tread. If you walk about ten meters up that way you can see where they got stuck in the mud and had to pull it out."

Ash joined Scribbs as she walked along a strip of firmer ground. "So," Kate sighed, "now we need to find a cyclist."

"Over there," Scribbs said, pointing to the mucky spot. "He got stuck right here."

They inspected the deep wheel ruts but they were not very enlightening. "Lots of people bike though," reflected Ash.

Scribbs nodded and rubbed her arms in the cold wind. "Cold out here." She peered around at the vast runway, a distant falling-down hanger and other small buildings. "Hell of a place to die."

Ash wrinkled her nose. "Never a good place, is there? What I want to know is why did our cyclist come out here? Miles from Middleford. Was he, let's say _he_ for the sake of convenience, connected to the death of James Moore? Does he have a thing for breaking into homes _and_ cycling in wild places _and_ does a little murder on the side, just for fun?"

"You have a morbid imagination today." Scribbs shook her head. "I answered Gallimore that the Boss sent the best. Are we?"

Ash nodded. "We have to be."

"Right," Scribbs answered. "Now can we get out of this muck?" She held up a muddy shoe. "I need dry shoes and a cuppa."

Ash nodded. "Let's go talk to the M.E. first."

The pathologist and Medical Examiner, Dr. Weatherall, opened a file when he saw them come into his office. "Here's your boy," he gave them a slim folder. "Forty-two, in decent health from what I can find. James Edward Moore. DCI Sullivan called me about you two being on this case."

Scribbs and Ash read the file together and silently.

After a minute and two pages Scribbs asked him, "Signs of trauma?"

"None. A bit drunk though. Blood alcohol was right up there and he might have thought he could walk on water." Weatherall steepled his fingers together. "But he didn't drown. No water in his lungs or foam in his throat, nose, and mouth."

Ash and Scribbs looked at one another for a few seconds. "And?" asked Ash.

Weatherall smiled at them. "The real question is why did he go there? And when? After those kids called the cops the car's motor was dead cold by the time someone thought to check it. And the water temperature chilled the body right down. So I can't give you even a good guess at time of death. But he'd eaten a full meal - dinner looked like - and it was partially digested."

Ash slowly followed Scribbs down the hall away from the morgue and sighed.

"Problem?" Scribbs asked. "I still need that cuppa."

"Fine," snapped her colleague.

"And… I want to hear about your mystery man. And you're buying."

Kate set her hot coffee on a table in the police canteen as she sat down. "He was a doctor, a GP; in Bath for a conference."

"Oh?" said Scribbs as she sipped at her tea. "A doctor. _Lah dee dah_. Nice suit you said he was wearing. Well heeled?"

"Likely not," answered Ash. "He was from a little village down in Cornwall."

"Cornwall?"

"Some biscuit-tin village named Portwenn."


	5. Chapter 5

Ash sat at her desk and checked her email. No urgent messages popped up so she closed the program. She started making notes on a pad as Scribbs walked in.

"Got dry shoes!" Scribbs announced happily and stuck out a foot for inspection. "Borrowed these trainers from PC Smithers. Like em'?"

Ash sneered at the display. "Wearing purple trainers with navy blue trousers, plus a stripped pink top? Yeah, right," she said sarcastically. "Perfect match."

"Well, Ash, I don't feel like I have to dress up all the time like you do!"

"Oh? What's wrong with a black coat and grey trousers? And I quite like this cream blouse."

"Nothing," Scribbs sighed. "If you like _boring_."

"Scribbs, I really don't care _what_ you think about what I wear."

Scribbs laughed. "Just winding you up, Ash. Boy you are torqued. Too easy."

Ash waved a hand to blow her off but just then her desk phone rang. "Ashurst," she said into the mouthpiece. "Oh? Sure. Really?"

Emma looked at her wide-eyed.

"Send her up." Ash said then hung up.

"Something?" Scribbs asked.

"A Mrs. Ostercroft is coming up for a chat."

Scribbs stood by the door and saw a statuesque woman slowly come up the stair. Her helmet of bleached blond hair made a striking contrast to the stricken look on her face but her dress was strictly High Street along with her pointy-toes heels. "Mrs. Ostercroft?" Scribbs called and the woman nodded assent. "I'm Detective Inspector Scribbs and this is DI Ashurst. How can we help you?"

The woman looked from Kate to Emma then burst into tears.

"Oh dear," Scribbs said patting her back. "Let's go down the hall so we can have a private chat."

Ash followed, wondering what the woman was so weepy about. In short order she found out.

In the cold interview room with the door closed, the woman introduced herself after apologizing. "Susan Ostercroft, Mrs." She wiped her wet eyes. "I just found out that Jimmy has died."

"Jimmy," Scribbs prodded.

"Jimmy Moore," the woman answered.

Ash stopped her. "We'll just be recording your statement; that okay?"

"Fine," the woman said as tears ran down her face.

Ash switched on the recorder. "This is DI Kate Ashurst along DI Scribbins in a voluntary interview with Susan Ostercroft at," she looked at the wall clock then stated the time and date.

"Go on," Scribbs prompted.

"I heard on the radio he was found." The woman slumped in her chair across from the detectives. "I'd been calling his mobile…"

Emma pushed a box of tissues over to her. "You do mean James Edward Moore?"

"Yes." The woman composed herself. "I… you see… how do I begin?"

"At the beginning," Ash said.

The woman nodded, sat up straighter and looked at them squarely. Ash and Scribbs were both taken aback by the instant transformation from a crumpled wreck to an imposing lady. "Jimmy, that is James and I were having… an affair." She sighed. "Been going on about eight months."

Scribbs pointedly indicated to Ash with a nod the huge diamond ring Mrs. Ostercroft was wearing on her left hand.

"And you're married," Ash said softly.

The woman glanced away, clearly embarrassed. "Yes. My husband is Dr. Thomas Ostercroft. He is an endocrine consultant. I really… really don't want him to find out about the…"

"Certainly," Ash told her, "provided that it's not part of the investigation."

"Jimmy," she sniffled, "was he _killed_?"

Ash's lips twitched. "That's what we're trying to find out. How did you hear of it?"

"On the car radio," she sniffled. "And they found him at RAF Nesmith?"

"That's right," Ash replied.

"Jimmy said his dad helped to build it. Been empty for years but Jimmy liked to go out there late at night and look at the stars. He said it made him feel free to get so far away from city lights. He had a stressful job; lots of demanding customers."

Kate looked down at her notes. "He was a medical salesman?"

"Account _representative_," said Ostercroft with emphasis. "Salesman sounds _so_ common."

Emma nodded to Kate who waved a finger back at her, a sign she understood, so she took the role of supportive 'good' cop while Kate got to ask the hard questions. "Susan, may I call you Susan?" Scribbs asked, "I know this is very hard." She held out another tissue to the woman who took it to blow her nose daintily.

"I know, I know…" Susan gulped.

Ash cleared her throat. "So you were seeing Mr. Moore."

"Yes, yes, he was… well quite unlike my husband. My husband can be… rather _plain_ at times. Jimmy is… sorry, _was_, very happy and carefree. One time… in his car…" she stopped and blushed. "Sorry – you don't need to hear about that! But Jimmy made me feel like a teenager again."

Kate cleared her throat. "Was James seeing anybody else? Was he married? Now or before? Any ex's?"

"No and no," Susan replied.

Scribbs asked her, "You're how old?"

"Thirty-nine."

"Have children?" Ash said.

"No."

Back to Scribbs. "Your husband's age?"

"Fifty-four. I used to be his receptionist… and," the woman sighed. "You know how it goes."

"So Jimmy was the fun loving fling," Ash interrupted.

"Don't say that!" Susan yelled. "He was NOT a fling! I was going to divorce Thomas and move in with Jimmy! You see Jimmy was, well, he reminded me of Thomas when we were young." She sighed deeply. "But things went on – we tried to have kids – no luck and… we got _stale_, I guess. But when I met Jimmy sparks flew." Now Susan sat there shining with an inner glow. "I felt young again, not that I'm old."

Ash and Scribbs exchanged glances. "Did you husband know this? The affair or the divorce to come?" Ash asked her.

"No… not yet…" Susan twisted the wadded up tissue as if she was strangling it. "That was the thing. I wanted to wait until after New Year's. So many _obligations_ at the Holidays. Best to get through all that; don't you think?"

"Keeping up appearances?" Ash replied.

"Well what else could I do?"

Ash cocked her head. "Was your husband one of Mr. Moore's clients?"

"Oh yes," said Susan brightly. "That's how we met. It was at a dinner back in late winter. One of his account sponsors put it on."

"Mrs. Ostercroft," Scribbs asked softly, "where were you last Thursday night?"

She sat quite still for a moment. "Was that the night…" her lips trembled.

Ash nodded. "We think so."

"Ah. I tried to call Jimmy – discreetly – this weekend but he never answered the messages I left." She sighed then trembled for a moment. "Uhm, at home, I think. Yes, I was! I had a horrid headache so I went to bed early. Migraine."

Scribbs asked her quietly, "Might you know where your husband was that evening?"

Susan pulled her mobile from her Prada handbag and switched it on. "Let's see." She looked at the detectives earnestly. "Thomas shares his schedule with me so we can coordinate. He may be _dull_ but he is _reliable_." She poked at the mobile. "Thursday, he said he might be working late." She peered at the screen carefully. "That's odd. I don't see it here. He must have forgotten to synchronize his schedule with mine. But I was out cold – had to take one of those powerful things that knock you out? And when you wake the next day the headache is gone. It's magic!"

"So you can't say exactly where your mister was that night." Ash said.

"No. But at his office I'm sure. I am… totally…" her face crumpled then snapped back into place. "Who did it? Do you know?"

Scribbs shook her head. "We don't know _what_ happened. Were you aware of any medical problems in Mr. Moore?"

"Healthy as a horse," Susan laughed, "and hung like one! Sorry. No. He ate only lean meats, veg, and salads; worked out as well. Drank a bit, but don't we all?"

"No drugs – legal or otherwise?" Scribbs continued.

"Never, far as I know, and neither do I."

Ash cautioned her about telling anyone else about their talk. "Thank you for coming to see us."

Susan stood, straightened her elegant dress and faced them squarely. "Just find out what or who, right? I did love him."

"Of course," answered Scribbs.

Kate ended their session and switched off the tape. As the detectives watched Susan Ostercroft swish away on three inch heels the necks of officers and detectives could nearly be heard snapping as they swiveled to watch the fashion plate leave.

Ash crossed her arms. "I think we just got our motive."

"And we should visit the good doctor." Scribbs smiled at her. "And based on the clothes she was wearing he must be a high roller."

Dr. Thomas Ostercroft was a tired looking grey-haired man with bushy eyebrows and a towering frame who glowered at them as he stood behind his office desk. "I have patients waiting while this goes on," he waved a large veined hand at them. "Make it snappy."

Ash cleared her throat. "We are sorry about interrupting what must be a _very_ busy schedule."

"Full waiting room, I saw," Scribbs quipped. "That's a good sign. Business must be good."

"You have no idea. Get to the point," the doctor snapped.

Ash gave him a forced smile. "DI Scribbs and I are investigating a James Edward Moore. We understand you might know him."

"Yes, I do. He provides, well the drug firms he represents, some of the medicines I provide my patients. Adrenaline, synthetic hormones, thyroxin, that sort of thing."

Scribbs wandered over to a wall covered with plaques. "Just what does an endocrinologist do?"

The man sighed. "I treat disorders of the body's glandular systems. Hormonal imbalances, hyper or hypo thyroidism, diabetes, metabolic disorders, reproductive and so forth."

Ash grinned. "And so forth."

The doctor sat down. "Look you I am _not_ about to natter on about every possible thing that I do! Now if you have anything else to ask, ask it and then get out."

Scribbs smiled but approached his desk then peered up at him. "Where were you last Thursday evening?"

"I was here, worked late. Paperwork for the NHS."

"Seems like you have quite a large staff out there." Ash threw a thumb over her shoulder at his outer office. "Couldn't they have done it?"

"I have to check their figures. The NHS is quite a stickler about the numbers. I didn't get home until midnight. Why the questions/"

Ash stood up so her eyes were closer to his. "Mr. Moore was found floating in a pond at RAF Nesmith and he'd dead."

Dr. Ostercroft winced. "Dead? How?"

"We don't know, but we'll find out," smiled Scribbs.

"When was this?" the doctor asked.

"He was found last Thursday night about midnight by a couple of kids who went there to shag, or snog, we're unclear on that," Scribbs told him.

The doctor sat down. "I hadn't heard. It's a shock."

"Especially to Mr. Moore," Ash replied.

Scribbs nodded to Ash who responded with a bob of her head. "Thank you Dr. Ostercroft."

But at his office door Ash stopped and looked back. "One more teeny question?"

"What?" the man said irately.

"Do any biking?"

"Not much anymore. Too busy."

"Bye then," Ash answered. "Oh, and if we have any other questions we'll be back."

"Make an appointment!" he bellowed.

Scribbs giggled as they got into the Vauxhall. "He's tall."

"About six foot-five if you ask me. And I bet he gets on a bike more than he admitted."

"What makes you say that?"

Ash smiled. "For a man in his mid-fifties he looks pretty fit to me. Rather lean, and either he has a normally ruddy face or he has wind-burned cheeks."

Scribbs laughed. "See, I didn't lie to Gallimore, did I? Smart as a whip."

Ash bit her lip as she thought that Dr. Thomas Ostercroft reminded her of someone else, a certain GP both in stature and bearing. "We'll find out," Ash answered Scribbs. "One way or the other."


	6. Chapter 6

Kate Ashurst answered him gruffly. "Two questions. _Who_ are you and _why_ were you following me?"

"Who am I?" Martin hissed then turned slightly to look squarely into her eyes. "Have you suffered a head injury? Fallen recently?"

"No," Kate huffed. At close quarters he was not as scary as he seemed when he was pursuing her since his large ears and fleshy lips gave him a sort of teddy-bearish quality. I bet he was teased a lot, she thought; looks the type. Was he a psycho or a perve, part of her wondered, her constable persona asserting itself.

Martin stiffened. Neither of her pupils appeared to be fixed or abnormally dilated. "Are you certain?"

Kate crossed her arms, glanced at the vendor who was peering at them with great curiosity, then suddenly tugged on his sleeve and got him around the side of the wooden stall. "Just tell me your name."

"What sort of game are you playing at? To ignore me is one thing," he blustered, "and I can understand that… you would wish… to…" Martin stopped as his encyclopedic brain had been riffling through his mental catalogue of disorders. Hm, he thought further. Temporary Global Amnesia? A diabetic crash in the offing? Some sort of psychotic break?

Now he examined her more warily. Her eyes were bright and clear; hair parted neatly and she exhibited no obvious signs of distress or a recent fall. Her boots were well-cared for and polished, the black coat neatly buttoned up to her chin and her white and black checked scarf prettily looped around her slim neck, over a grey turtleneck. He snagged her wrist and tried to feel her pulse, but she shrugged him away.

"Back off," she snarled. That's when she backed up a step, dug in her handbag and pulled out a slim black folder which contained her police badge and ID. She snapped it open, waved it in front of his face and watched understanding start to dawn on him. "Kate Ashurst – Middleford CID. Not _Louisa_."

Martin read it carefully, comparing the photograph to the woman in front of him. "Ah. I thought…" he coughed. "I… mistook you… pardon." He whirled on his heel to leave.

"Stop!" Kate commanded and he did as she ordered.

"Ahm," he looked back at her. "I thought you were someone I knew," he sighed. "You're not."

"I asked you a question!" Kate hissed at him. "Got a name?"

"Martin Ellingham," he answered slowly.

She snapped her fingers at him. "ID."

Martin took out a wallet and slowly extracted his driver's license holding it out for her which she snatched away.

"Says you're a doctor," Kate read. "Cornwall."

Martin shuddered involuntarily. "Yes," he sighed. "GP in the village of Portwenn."

Kate stepped closer to him and now that she could see his eyes were green, not blue; that shade that in dim light that might look like anything. "Who did you think I was?" She watched as Dr. Martin Ellingham shook his head.

He answered nervously, "Louisa Glasson."

"Oh," said Kate slowly. She gave his license back and watched as he methodically returned it to his wallet, the wallet back inside his suit coat, then he shot his cuffs and straightened his tie. He was clearly a very precise person.

Martin was dumbfounded, gobsmacked really, because of the appearance of the female who stood before him. She was the twin of Louisa, but perhaps a bit taller? Or maybe it was the height of her heeled boots giving that impression?

"You even sound like her," he mumbled, although if pressed he would have to agree that the timbre of her voice was slightly deeper than Louisa's, from what he heard so far.

Kate nodded. "I'm not _her_," she said, as she uncomfortably stared up at him while shoppers whirled about them.

"_Doppelganger_," sighed Martin.

"Doppelganger?"

"A _double_. It's a German word meaning _double-walker_ or _double-goer_. Legendary."

"You speak German?"

"No."

Kate smiled briefly at this awkward pause. "So… this Louisa… is a girlfriend."

"Was."

"_Past tense_ then and when you saw _me_ you thought I was _her_."

Martin nodded mutely. This woman looked so like Louisa it hurt to be this close to her. Oh Louisa… he closed his eyes… I do miss you. "I'll go," he uttered more to getaway than anything. It was far too hard to be looking at this policewoman and know it _wasn't_ Louisa.

Kate realized she held the toy dolphin tucked under her arm. "Here." She held it out to him and he took it in his large hands. "GP?"

He shrugged. "It's a small practice. Less than a thousand in the village."

"You don't have a Cornish accent."

"From London, originally."

"Ah." Kate was wondering how to end this odd encounter, when she realized Ellingham was shivering in the cold. "You need a coat."

"Back at the hotel."

"I'm staying in a B&B just down the way on Abbey Green."

Martin sighed.

Kate pursed her lips. "Best be off."

"Yes," Martin sighed.

"Sorry about the… thing back there," she threw her head to the side. "Go into cop mode sometimes."

"I… do the same," he answered.

"Oh, right," Kate replied. "Doctor stuff. My dad was a doctor – GP as well."

"Ah," Martin responded but there was some sort of disturbance behind this woman for while this policewoman was saying something about her father, his ears picked up a sound of choking and a shout. He immediately walked around her then started to run.

"What?" Kate asked. "Dr. Ellingham?" she called to his retreating back. "Rude." She too heard a cry for help so ran after the tall doctor. It wasn't hard for her to follow his course through a crowd of people all looking daggers at his back as he plowed through them clearly with no words of apology.

Martin's ears, unnaturally attuned to disturbances, had faintly heard a cry for help so he responded automatically. As he ran down a crowded aisle he detected a woman's voice screaming again. Around a corner he pushed through a group on people encircling someone.

"Help!" he heard that female voice once more. "He can't breathe!"

"Make way!" Martin yelled, "Move it!" he pushed his way inside the mass and saw an old man on his back, face nearly turning blue, clutching at his throat. An old woman knelt by him crying and pleading.

Martin dropped to his knees and stared at the man's face, eyes straining and mouth open. "Can you get any air?" he shouted.

The old man shook his head side-to-side hands pawing at his neck.

Martin glared at the woman. "Was he eating?"

"Yeah," the old girl said. "That."

Martin saw a toffee apple laying on the cobbles, a single bite gone. "Oh for God's sake!" Martin grumbled as he sat the man up, hauled him to his feet and then holding his back to his chest, got his arms around the man under his armpits. He made a fist with his left hand, put it below the sternum, and placing his left hand on top of his right squeezed, nearly lifting the man's feet off the ground. He was aware of many shocked faces in the crowd, the old gal crying by his side, and the fragility of the old man in his arms.

On the third compression, a giant piece of partially masticated apple shot out of the man's mouth and bounced across the square. Martin was rewarded by a cough and a colossal intake of breath. "He's fine," he told the old woman. "It was the apple."

The old man coughed a couple times then seemed fine. "I'm alright, love," he murmured, "Just didn't chew properly."

"Get some water for this man," ordered Martin and miraculously a plastic water bottle was handed over.

Martin watched while the man drank a few swallows, as he checked him over. "Any dizziness?"

"Nope," the old man replied. "Thanks."

The elderly woman sobbed openly, while Martin dusted the knees of his trousers. "He'll be fine," he announced to her.

Seeing the show was over, the knot of society slowly dispersed.

"Well done," Martin heard a voice say.

He turned and saw it was the policewoman. "Yes. Heimlich Manoeuver. Simple."

Kate nodded. "Had to do that once or twice myself."

Martin rubbed his hands together as he could feel grit from the street on them. "I ought to wash my hands." He looked about fruitlessly.

"Tell you what?" Kate said to him. "I'll buy you a tea, or coffee, if you prefer. I found a nice little tea shop up the way. Two streets over and out of this crush."

"Fine," Martin said, as he followed her lead away from the city square.


	7. Chapter 7

"So if Dr. Ostercroft knew about his wife's affair, do you think he'd do something about it?" Scribbs said as she nibbled on a hangnail.

Ash slapped her hand away. "Stop that."

Scribbs sat on her hand to keep from nibbling, driving with the other. "Do you?"

"Does anyone know what goes on inside the quiet and serene walls of suburbia?" Ash mused. "I do think the busy doctor might be so accepting, no."

Scribbs replied, "We've seen too many crimes of passion. But here's what I think; if the doctor knew his wife was shagging a younger man, forget about a divorce – yeah, I think he'd go for him. He didn't react that much to hearing of his death though"

"Or he'd already heard about it on the news or from his staff and was good at covering up." Ash sighed. "That's what I'm thinking as well. A cool customer though. Susan said he was a bit of a stick."

"But how? Let's say Moore eats dinner, gets a bit smashed, drives out to the RAF field to his fav spot for a little stargazing. He gets out of his car, slips and falls, boom in the water and he's dead."

"But he didn't drown; Weatherall ruled that out."

Scribbs nodded. "Yeah I know. Well then a heart attack or something."

"But why take his shoes off? You saw how deep the muck was out there."

"But he'd had too much to drink."

"So you're saying too much to drink to know he's wading in mud up to his ankles in his stockings, but _not_ too drunk to smash his car up on the way." Ash shook her head.

"Yeah," Scribbs sighed. "Doesn't make sense."

While Scribbs drove Ash called Dr. Weatherall. "Any more on our Mr. Moore," she asked when he'd answered. "Oh and I have you on speaker with Scribbins."

"Okay. Hi Scribbs." the doctor cleared his throat. "The toxicology screens are negative. No illicit drugs or any other reasons he would be dead."

"So _no_ sign of a stroke or heart attack?" Scribbs asked.

"No, and I put a call into his GP," Weatherall answered. "Moore was healthy and not on any medications. They were unsure if he had a family history of anything like cardiac."

Ash replied, "So we have a dead man who ought to be alive?"

Weatherall chuckled. "We all live until we die, but yes. Hate to admit it but I'm stumped. I can find no obvious reasons for the man's death."

"So _not_ a heart attack?" Scribbs asked.

"I couldn't see any signs of one. No infarcts; that is no dead heart muscle. It's possible he might have suffered heart block though."

"Heart block?" Ash said.

"Yes. That's when the heart's natural pacemakers misfire in some way or something interferes with the electrical pathways in the organ."

Scribbs shook her blond head. "Pacemakers? Not just one?"

"There are several in the cardiac system," the doctor explained. "One major one is the SA node; the sinoatrial node of nervous tissue. His appears to be fine."

Ash nodded while something niggled at her memory. "Thanks doctor."

"This is a good one, I must say," he chuckled. "Not funny that we can't find out how he died. Everyone dies for a reason."

"Oh, we think we have a motive, doc," said Scribbs, "Green eyed monster. Jealousy."

The pathologist laughed. "That one's all too prevalent. Bye."

Ash held her mobile thoughtfully.

"Something?" Scribbs asked her. "What now?"

Kate dropped her phone back in her bag. "I was thinking about my conversation with that doctor I met. The Cornwall GP."

000

Martin came from the washroom expecting to see that the policewoman had left. But no, she sat at the linen-covered table where he'd left her to go wash up.

"You stayed," he said as he slid into the seat opposite hers while every one of senses was reacting to her presence. That he knew was quite odd considering that she was NOT Louisa.

Kate looked over at him and grinned. "Said I'd buy you tea. Cold out there."

Martin directed his attention to the menu just as a pert waitress stopped at their table.

"Miss?"

Ash smiled at her. "Earl Grey and some of that luscious looking lemon cake in the cabinet."

"Sir?" the young girl asked. "Ready to order?"

Martin handed her the menu. "Ceylon."

"Anything else? Biscuits?"

"No," Martin replied.

The waitress left and Martin wondered what he could say to the woman across from him.

To Kate the tea spot was cozy for soft music played in the background, each table decorated with tiny sprigs of baby's breath and silk roses, along with pastel green napkins contrasting with bone-white tablecloths. A tiny oil lamp was glowing on each table and with the subtle light from wall globes gave a soft light to the surroundings. The room was wide, with plenty of glass frontage, so even if it was overcast outside, the room seemed snug with oak paneling and floor. She had left her coat at the check stand, but kept her scarf draped over her shoulders. Typically the room was cool, certainly not overheated.

To Martin it was just a tea room; overcrowded and noisy. And why must they be playing music? He looked down, touched the silverware and adjusted them so they were perfectly perpendicular to the table's edge and parallel to each other. To kill time, he next sipped water from the crystal goblet in front of him.

"So…" Kate said to him. "As I said before nice bit of work back there."

He almost looked in pain as he said, "My job."

"Well, it worked."

Martin shrugged. "All those bystanders would have watched him choke; and they did; they were."

Kate nodded. "But quick on the spot, you were."

Martin nodded then got up the nerve to face her squarely. "Why are you doing this?"

"I said I'd buy you tea."

"You don't even know me."

"I know your name, what you do, and the town you live in." She smiled encouragingly.

"Not a town," he grunted. "A village. Small. Isolated. They fish there; that is some do."

"And you're their GP."

"Surgeon actually. And the seagulls are loud, the fish is smelly… and…"

"You were a surgeon?" she interrupted.

"Yes," he snapped and Kate could the steel spring snap as he said it. "Made a career change. My choice. Now their GP."

Kate grinned. "I imagine that comes in handy down there. Bit of surgery on the fishermen? Digging out fishhooks."

Martin told her, "I had to operate on a ten-year-old boy in an ambulance when he started bleeding out from a ruptured spleen."

"Gosh. Bit dicey."

His shoulders sagged. "Injured in a school fall. Air evac couldn't get in. The ambulance was too slow. He nearly died. Fine now."

Kate took a sharp look at this man. He operated in an ambulance? "Then they're very lucky to have you around." He gave up surgery?

He sneered, "You tell them that."

Kate could see that things back home could not be very good if that was his reaction. "They don't… like you? That it?"

"Doesn't matter."

Kate bit her lip for Martin was very subdued, unless he always was like this. In some ways he reminded her of the Boss. Oh Sullivan was tall, and handsome – Paul Sullivan had the edge there – but they both were so private and mysterious.

**Author's note:**

**A tip of the hat to a certain reader! Thanks for the word-picture of a tea room!**


	8. Chapter 8

Kate sighed.

"Problem?" Martin asked. It was almost physically painful for him to look at her. He knew she wasn't Louisa, but his eyes and ears, told him it _was_ her! But it wasn't – couldn't be – but all the same he could not take his eyes off Kate.

Kate took the bit in her teeth and plunged in. "You thought I was your friend Louisa."

He nodded. "Yes. Remarkable resemblance."

"In what way?"

He waved a hand. "Hair, eyes, voice, height and perhaps weight."

Kate rolled her eyes. "Maybe we're twins," she smirked.

"She has no siblings."

Not much for joking was he, Kate realized. "You mentioned a medical conference."

Martin picked up his napkin, unfolded it and carefully set it over his lap. "NHS requires certain… educational courses."

"Right just like my job. Had to re-qual for Unarmed Combat last month."

"Re-qual?"

"Re-qualify."

"Middleford CID," he asked, "you do just what?"

She put elbows on the table and leaned forward, lowering her voice. "Criminal investigation. Assault, robbery, drugs, murder. As a Detective Inspector I'm on the murder team."

He sighed. "Horrible."

"Oh?" she bristled for that was Alex's reaction – her former and over-sensitive ex-boyfriend, who had dumped her because _he_ could not deal with _her_ job.

"I mean," he paused. "The taking of another's life is the paramount crime."

She nodded. "Yes. Just now I'm working some B&E."

"B&E?"

"Breaking and Entering; robbery of houses or commercial establishments. Haven't had a good murder in a while."

Just then the tea arrived so they had to quit talking shop while the mechanics of making tea the English way took hold. Measure the loose tea into the tea-ball, snap it shut, plunge the ball into their respective teapots and wait.

Martin added one sugar and a small amount of milk to his Ceylon tea after he poured it into his cup. He had steeped his tea for exactly three minutes, since he kept careful time on his watch. Not a good murder in a while, she said? Ashurst was clearly quite absorbed in her job. He looked at her again and reflected on what she'd told him. Louisa would _never_ be interested in police work. Teaching was her passion, plus she enjoyed children, God knows why.

Kate smiled at Ellingham as he timed his tea – such a particular and oh so exacting man. Rather stiffly he sat there as he steeped his tea. She scooped up a forkful of the lemon cake, which smelled divine, and it tasted even better. "What?" Kate said when she saw Ellingham slightly sneer.

"Dessert in the middle of the day."

"I'll pay for it next week when I have to work it off. Jogging and weights." She set down the fork feeling guilty and self-conscious. Damn him! Now she couldn't eat it.

He nodded. "I expect in your line of work you have to remain fit."

"I do, yes. You?"

"Portwenn is very hilly and I walk a lot. Occasionally go for a swim at the Leisure Center."

Kate stirred her Earl Grey to cool it. "Louisa had been a girlfriend," she said more to deflect him from calories and wondering how much she weighed.

Martin had his tea at this mouth and he nearly choked on it. It hurt to even think about it. "Yes."

"It ended."

He nodded.

"A bust up?"

He nodded slowly, his eyes now looking like pools of pain. "We were…"

Kate could swear he was going to cry for just an instant then what must be iron control snapped back into place. "Sorry."

He sighed. "Engaged. We did not marry."

"Oh dear."

"We both decided… felt…"

Kate held up her hands. "You don't have to go on."

Martin shrugged. "We each decided to marry would be… ill-considered." He took another drink of tea, which tasted excellent.

She heard the words but sensed that his too logical statement of fact covered over a deep well of unhappiness. Just like her town of Middleford. How much sorrow was hidden at home behind those walls of residential houses? To veer away from his brink she said, "I quite like investigating."

"A challenge I'm sure." He went back to his tea.

"So Louisa, she's gone you said. Where?"

"She moved up to Town."

Kate shook her head. "If I get down to London I'll have to look her up."

Martin's eyes practically jumped out of his head. "Uhm, don't do that."

Kate smiled at him. "Just joking. A shock to think that I have a double."

"But you're _you_ and _not_ someone else. As unique as I am."

I imagine you are really one of a kind, she mused. Surgeon to GP? "Not many doctors have moved from surgery to general practice. That's different."

He froze. "Yes. A personal choice." He drank his tea, fiddled with the spoon and looked at her again. No, she was not Louisa for she didn't smell of Kenzo Flower. He decided to move the subject away from himself. "Detective."

She grinned. "Sounds rather ominous doesn't it? When we get a case," she started quietly, "we never know where it will lead. We have evidence, that is, if we can find it, and must string it all together."

"Connect the dots."

"Yeah," she leaned forward. "But sometimes the dots are missing."

"Like medicine."

"Really? At least your patient is alive. My subject usually just lays there."

He almost grinned at that. "The patient presents with a complaint. Cough, rash, whatever. The physician's job is to make an examination, collect the facts, even those they may be withholding."

"Why would one of your patients not tell you everything?"

He shook his head. "You'd be surprised."

Kate leaned back. "I suppose if what they had was embarrassing – like an STD or drug abuse."

He nodded slowly. "Something like that." Or how about sadomasochism, alcoholism, or partner abuse… he stopped that train of thought.

"A murder investigation is no different. I mean witnesses often won't tell you straight on what they really saw, or change it in some way. Where they were, who they were with, and so on."

He nodded again. "Very similar."

Kate looked around the room then back at Martin. "Did you enjoy the tea Martin?"

"Yes." He poured a second cup.

"That'll be cold."

"No it's fine." He didn't actually want more tea, but if it prolonged the minutes he could look at her. Kate, he thought. This is Kate.

"I'll just get the waitress…"

"No, Louisa…" his voice locked for a moment. "I'm sorry. _Kate_."

"Odd," she said. "I mean, not you. Just this," she looked around the room. "Us. This weird meeting."

He sighed. "I know." The outer door opened and more people pushed in for it was raining heavily. "Wet out."

Kate looked over her shoulder to the window. "Yep. So we've establish that medicine and murder investigations can overlap."

"Venn diagram."

Kate smiled for she was good at math, but despite her excellent A-levels had chosen to enter the Force. "I remember those."

"Police work," he said.

Kate crossed her arms. "I was always good at math and science, but spending my days in a lab or teaching or whatever just didn't seem interesting. But solving crimes…"

"That's what drew me to surgery." That and dad was a surgeon. "Fixing the wrong."

"Like I said my dad was a GP but medicine didn't turn me on. Fixing the wrong; yeah, that says it for me. Catch the murderer."

"Murder is very wrong," added Martin. "You know, for a time at school I was interested in forensic pathology."

She smiled. "Our pathologist is topnotch."

"Must be able to cut through the dross to the core of the matter."

"Such as getting your patients to talk."

"Like your body, I mean, the uhm, corpse." Despite himself Martin had undressed Kate in his mind. He knew it was wrong but the image was there, but the images he held I his head were of _Louisa_ and not _this_ woman.

There weren't that many times he and she had been together, perhaps a dozen or so, and nearly always in the dark – at her house or his – but… she was _still_ there in his head – and he knew she would never leave. The feel of her skin, the warmth of her body, her lustrous long hair… all he had to do was think her name and it all came flooding back.

Louisa may have gone to London, and perhaps might make the occasional trip back to Portwenn, but it would never be the same between them. But the memories he would cherish. He was recalling a certain cookout on her back terrace when Kate interrupted his thoughts.

"You look very far away."

"Sorry." Martin looked hard at her. "As a boy I read all the stories about Sherlock Holmes."

Kate smiled. "Me too. The stories I mean."

"Ah." Martin stirred his tea. "But for the fact I chose surgery I might be your M.E."

"Now about that," Kate prodded. "You're a GP?"

"I retrained as one; it took a year after I left surgery."

"You must enjoy working with people."

Martin sighed. "I ought to be going." He picked up his napkin and dabbed at his lips.

"Your, uhm, meeting."

"No." He sneered. "Most of the sessions are pure time-wasters!"

"Then why go?" Kate still wanted to know more about Louisa. She turned her head where a rain shower had started anew. "Raining again."

Martin grunted, "Fine." He put his napkin back into his lap and stared at her. "What?"

"Just enjoy your tea, Dr. Ellingham."

He lifted his cup and peered at her over it. "Thank you for the tea Detective Ashurst."

"So," she said after a few seconds of tense silence. "Call me Kate. Detective is too… formal"

He nodded. "Fine. Uhm… Martin."

"Right. Martin."

"About forensics," he said, "Fascinating subject. Examine the scientific facts of the case. There are an entire array of common chemicals which can affect the human body, even causing death. Poison and their effects are interesting; amazing. For instance," he picked up a salt shaker and tipped it.

Kate could see the white crystals slide from one side of the glass cylinder to the other. "Salt?"

"Common table salt," he went on. "Sodium plus chlorine. Either element by itself in pure form a deadly poison, but our bodies require a certain amount of salt to function. In excess it can destroy both kidneys and mind. Now take potassium; next down the Periodic Table from sodium. Necessary for our hearts to properly beat. But an excess, a condition called hyperkalemia, can cause shakiness, tingling of the extremities, and a slowing pulse. In high enough dosage, death results." He put the salt shaker down.

Kate hadn't counted on this type of conversation. "So potassium is bad."

"No. It is absolutely necessary to maintain the proper ionic balance of the nervous system. But too much or too little potassium can interfere with cardiac pacing. In fact potassium chloride, KCl is the chemical formulae, in very high doses has been used in some countries in a drug-cocktail to execute condemned prisoners. Barbaric," he finished.

000

"The Cornwall doc? What did he tell you?" Scribbs asked. "What's he got to do with this case?"

Ash smiled. "Chemistry, Scribbs. Chemistry. Get us back to the office. I want to talk to Weatherall in person."


	9. Chapter 9

Just then the waitress intruded on their morbid conversation. "You two okay?" she asked. "More hot water? Biscuits? More cake?"

Martin cocked an eyebrow at Kate.

"No, I think we're fine," Kate told the young woman.

The waitress smiled as she put their bill on the table. "It looks like the rain is stopping. I hope you have a nice day."

"Thanks," Kate told her and reached for the check, but Martin had already snapped it up. "No," she protested. "Let me pay."

Martin shook his head as he pulled a card from his wallet. "I have it."

Kate crossed her arms as she fumed. "My treat."

"No." He snagged their waitress as she passed carrying a tray. "Here," he told her.

"That's not fair," Kate said. "I invited you."

Martin shrugged. It was not part of his nature to let a female companion pay for a meal.

She shook her head. "Men."

"Yes, I am; a man."

"I noticed," she laughed.

"Years of police training."

That made her laugh and he almost smiled back at her.

Kate found she had enjoyed having tea with Martin; perhaps more upright fun than she ever had with Michael.

"Uhm, are you… uhm, staying past the weekend?" he asked unexpectedly.

"No," she sighed. "Afternoon train on Sunday. You?"

He nodded. "Likewise. Two twenty."

She smiled. "Two forty, me."

He nodded.

The waitress returned with his card. "Have a nice weekend you two," she trilled as she set the card and receipt down.

"Thanks. You as well," Kate replied while Martin signed the slip.

"Good Ceylon," Martin mumbled.

"Thank you, sir!" the waitress answered. "We pride ourselves on our selection."

Martin nodded. "Fine."

Kate bit her lip, wanting somehow to prolong the moment. "I noticed you wear a ring, on your right hand."

Martin looked at his hand. "My grandfather's wedding band. Platinum."

"You must have admired him a lot. A nice tribute."

Martin looked away. "My father's father; also a physician. He collected clocks."

"Clocks?"

"Watches, grandfather clocks, alarm clocks."

"Must have been quite a collector."

"He also repaired them."

"He's gone now?"

"Years ago," Martin said, wiping his mouth with his napkin, which he folded carefully and put on the table. "Ready?"

Kate pulled a lipstick from her bag along with a small mirror, and touched up her lips. "Yes." Kate dropped the makeup into her bag and zipped it shut. A small sigh escaped from her.

Martin heard it. He wanted to… damn it, the seconds were ticking by so he squared his shoulders, cleared his throat and unbidden his mouth opened. "You're very beautiful."

Kate stiffened. "Because I look like _her_?"

Martin shook his head slowly. "No."

"But you said that I do; that I am."

Martin shook his head. "You are _you_, Kate and I'm sorry… uhm, that…" He shrugged.

"Yeah," Kate snapped and jerked her head while she jumped up.

He could only follow dumbly to the coat rack where he watched as she quickly shrugged into her clack coat, buttoned it all the way up, and arranged her scarf just so around her neck. Martin didn't want to insult her; he'd only said what he felt. This is what happened he knew, for when he opened his mouth people got hurt. Better just to stay silent.

Kate slung her handbag over her shoulder, turned to him and stuck out her right hand. "Nice meeting you."

"The tea was good," was what came out of his mouth, which was the furthest thing he wished to say. He self-consciously took her hand, gave her smooth, cool, and slim fingers a brief perfunctory shake, then sadly watched as she turned on her heel and fled out the door.

Martin watched the door swing shut behind her but he was frozen to the spot. He sighed softly, waited a few seconds, then pushed open the door and emerged into a pale gleam of sunlight.

Having tea with her had been a dream; talking to her, looking at her, but trying to see _Kate_ _Ashurst _and not _Louisa_ as she spoke, drank, moved, crossed her arms was a struggle. Someone jostled him as he stood outside the shop for he was lost in memories both old and new.

"Move it mate," the man growled at him, so he turned and walked away.

Kate got to the corner before she turned and looked back. She saw Martin come from the tea room and stop in the crush of the bustling sidewalk. "Martin Ellingham, you are one very interesting man."

Was he more interesting than Michael for instance or even Alex? He was just as quiet and controlled as Paul Sullivan, but Paul was more handsome, just in a more classic way. Both men were mysterious. Martin could be rude and abrupt, she'd seen that. But he was also quiet and reserved, just like the Boss.

She saw Martin turn and walk away, head and shoulders above most of the crowded sidewalk; no hat or coat, but he moved confidently away and she wondered what he was thinking. There was a man who had loved and lost; it was written all over him in the way his eyes winced as he spoke of Louisa.

She sighed. "Always a bridesmaid and never a bride," she said aloud but then she shook herself. "Come on Ash, get a grip," she muttered. "And stop fantasizing about men you can't have, be they your boss in the Force or a stranger that followed you on the streets of Bath."

She continued to walk away but took one last look back over her shoulder at Martin, his broad shoulders forging ahead, those long legs of his propelling him on his way. She stopped at the corner because of vehicle traffic and in spite of herself took another look back. There he was a block away.

"You said I was beautiful," she softly whispered and that made her smile just a little. "Bye Dr. Ellingham," she sighed, then slowly crossed the narrow street, her boot heels ringing on the cobbles.


	10. Chapter 10

Back at his hotel, Martin used the bathroom in his room, brushed his teeth and then straightened his tie. After he stood at the window for some moments and watched people going to and fro below. He wasn't actually thinking of anything. It was almost like watching ocean waves, he realized. They came and went, each one different from the last, but the net affect was the same. That's what the people below scurrying back and forth reminded him of. He suspected that one could perform a numerical simulation of their skittering about. "Ghastly thought," he muttered then retrieved his conference materials and descended to the main ballroom.

He found a seat near the back of the darkened room just as the next speaker was getting started. He tried to quiet his swirl of ideas and pay attention.

"Afternoon," the woman on the dias said to the room where perhaps fifty people sat, most of them men. "I am Dr. Carol Carrow with the Southern Health Initiative, Bristol, and my presentation is titled 'Management of Hypertension in the Elderly Primagravida.' "

Martin saw her smile but for the life of him he could not see what she was happy about. Dealing with pregnant women in their late thirties and early forties had no great interest for him, but he gritted his teeth and tried to follow along. In Portwenn it seemed that nearly all his patients had their children well before thirty and then lost interest in the process, except for those he considered over achievers.

"We studied a population in our County and local environs…"

Martin was sitting next to an overweight doctor who wheezed merely sitting. God, Martin thought, I hope he doesn't have an MI right next to me. The man's fat arms stuck out like large sausages, pressing themselves onto Martin's arm.

"Sorry, mate," the man mumbled then shifted to the side.

Martin nodded back then tried to listen to the woman on the stage.

"One contributing factor to our patients' well-being was whether they had a life partner who could provide support," Carrow went on, "that is if they had a stable job/family life."

He sighed softly. That's what contraception is for he mused, yet there were times that countermeasures failed; a broken of misused condom, lack of sufficient barrier cream on a diaphragm, or poor placement… he stopped that line of thought. Might he and Louisa have had children? It wasn't anything they actually discussed but he felt sure she'd have wanted one or two. He sighed.

"Problem?" wheezed the man at his side.

Martin shifted himself away from the man. "No."

"Now, on this chart I've shown the major indices of patient life states, along with a cross-plot of BP late in pregnancy. I'll mention none of the women in this study were morbidly obese, used drugs or alcohol to excess, or had diabetes. We screened those into our high-risk study, which my colleague Dr. Wilton will be speaking about next."

Chart followed chart, presenter after presenter went on, and Martin managed to lose himself in the details of the conference while his tea with Kate Ashurst receded somewhat from his mind. But impressed on the screen image, from time to time, was the way she nodded, flicked a stray hair off her face, or leaned forward while speaking to him and of course the lines between the faces of Louisa and Kate blurred into one.

His stomach grumbled for he'd not had much lunch and two cups of tea was less than filling. From time to time, he glanced down at his watch wondering at what point he might escape from this room of hum-drum. The man next to him started to snore around half-five and that's when Martin made his escape.

000

"Damn it," Kate muttered.

"Problem?" the closest vendor asked.

Kate had ventured back to the square for naturally she'd been drawn to the shops and Christmas chalets. She'd promised Scribbs she'd get her something and if she couldn't find a suitable piece of bric-a-brac here then she wasn't trying.

She had poked round in her handbag and underneath her thick wallet and chequebook she saw the blue and white toy dolphin which Martin had bought and she had unwittingly ended up with.

"No," she smiled. To make up for her outburst she spent a few minutes examining the stained glass sun-catchers and panels the man was selling. "These are nice," she said holding up a round one, about four inches across, with the face of a bearded man on it.

"Sul." The man said, pointing to it.

"Pardon?"

"The Celts called him Sul or Sulis, they think. The Romans put their spin on it and put their goddess Minerva in his place. Sulis Minerva – a goddess of both healing and curses, oddly enough."

"Healing and curses?"

The man nodded his dark head. "But I think this guy here, and the scientist Johnnies found his image on the temple over the Baths, is the Celtic god of the spring. See how his hair and beard streams away from his face? That's the water flowing out of the spring. Aquae Sulis the Romans called the whole place."

Kate nodded for she'd read part of the guidebook on the train. "I see. How much?"

The man smiled. "He'll brighten up a window somewhere. Six and five."

Kate looked the object over.

"How about five?" the man prompted not wanting to lose a sale.

"Fine," Kate answered then made the purchase.

The man carefully wrapped the glass in crumpled paper. "Been to the Baths?"

"Not yet."

"You can see the original carving in there at the museum."

"I'll have to go then."

"One of my favorite spots is to go in there and stand right by the Main Pool and just imagine what it musta been like way back when."

Kate smiled for she'd done the same thing at Stonehenge the day before. "A lot of history."

The man smiled and handed her the wrapped sun catcher. "And we're just passing through."

Just then her mobile rang and she answered without looking at the screen. "Hello?"

"Kate?" a man's voice asked. "I… wanted to see how you were."

Kate sighed. "Michael."

"Listen I want to apologize."

"Oh."

"Yeah I was a real tosser." He did sound sincere, but…

"Right," she sighed. "I think I noticed that."

"I was thinking I ought to come over and see you – properly."

"Michael if you forgot we had planned a weekend in Bath."

"Oh," he said. "You went anyway. You've gone away."

Kate closed her eyes in irritation. "Yep. I came by MYSELF Michael. _You_ _stood me up_."

There was a strained silence. "I'm sorry, love. Said that once."

Kate held the mobile away from her mouth for a second then put it back so she could speak to him. "I'll have you know I met a lovely man here, a doctor, and though he's not quite perfect, he's a bloody sight better than you! Now… listen carefully… _bugger off_ Michael! I don't want to see you ever again."

She disconnected the call, put her mobile away and squared her shoulders, feeling free. "Now," she said to herself. "What to do next?"


	11. Chapter 11

Weatherall looked irritated as Ash and Scribbs stopped him in the corridor. The man was clearly on his way out with hat on head, coat firmly buttoned and briefcase in hand. Weatherall sighed when he saw them, after giving his watch a quick glance.

"I don't have a lot of time," he told them. "Told the wife I'd get to our son's Holiday play. He's Father Christmas this year; a move up from one of the Elves last year."

"Doctor, we wanted to talk to you about the pond body." Ash had to practically tackle him to make him stop while Scribbs made apologetic faces. "James Moore."

"And we don't want to make you late," Scribbs added.

Weatherall looked at them and sighed. "Can't this wait?"

Ash shook her head. "Just had an idea."

He said, "Fine. Get on with it. Make it quick. I'm still in the doghouse for missing last years' show."

Ash smiled and answered, "Right. I was talking to a doctor and he mentioned that potassium chloride is a dangerous substance."

"Can be," he answered. "What brought this up?"

"Oh," muttered Kate, "just a chat about medicine. He told me it can stop the heart."

"Well, not stop it outright, unless there are other factors or the dosage is very large." He crinkled his brow. "That's an idea."

Scribbs butted in, "But Moore didn't drown. You told us that. So why's he dead?"

Weatherall leaned back against the wall and rubbed his forehead. "Where would the KCl come from?"

Scribbs and Ash exchanged glances. "A doctor?" they said in unison.

The pathologist stared at the floor for a moment. "Moore massed around 75 kilograms, not quite 12 stone. It wouldn't take very much since he had been drinking."

"Why not?" Ash asked.

"Alcohol can depress the central nervous system, so the dose of KCl needed to kill him might not be very high. Perhaps less than a cubic centimeter. It would have to be diluted and injected of course." Weatherall sighed. "Look, I really have to dash."

Scribbs smiled at Ash. "Did you find any needle marks on his body?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No. But we can take another look. He had no next of kin so we still have the remains. Now I really must be off."

"Thanks, Doc," Scribbs told him. "You best run."

He looked at his watch, muttered a, "Bloody hell," and was gone.

"Hope he makes it," Scribbs said. "Wouldn't want him to miss the big show."

As Ash watched him run away she wondered how a certain other doctor would be spending his Christmas.

The two women were walking upstairs when the Boss stopped them. "Any leads on the Moore case?"

Scribbs said. "We found out Mr. Moore had a girlfriend; a married one. And her husband is quite tall; has large feet, which might match the footprints at the RAF field, plus he's a cyclist – or at least used to be one."

"And Moore was a supplier of pharmaceuticals to this doctor," Kate added.

"Name?" Sullivan asked.

"Dr. Thomas Ostercroft," Ash answered.

DCI Sullivan's face blanched. "I _know him_ and his _wife_."

"Oh?" Ash asked.

The Boss rolled his eyes. "He's a friend of my uncle – mother's side. Uncle Alfred served on a hospital board with him and I remember meeting the man at several community police initiatives as well." Sullivan looked up and down the stair. "Better come to my office."

The Boss parked himself behind his desk while Scribbs and Ash told him all they knew.

"Humph. So how does this tie in with the B&Es?" he asked when they had finished.

Ash bit her lip. "We don't know."

Sullivan shook his head. "This has to be watertight. So far you haven't tied the robberies, or the footprints, to the dead man. Ideas?"

Scribbs waved her hands about nervously. "Guess we need to work on that."

The Boss smiled sadly at them. "You do."

Emma added, "Maybe we should talk to the robbery victims."

Sullivan nodded. "Sounds like a good idea _before_ we can make a charge of murder. So far…" he snapped his fingers. "We don't have that much in hand. Facts, detectives! I need facts! Now get to it."

Scribbs straggled after Ash back to their desks. "Well that was less than excellent."

Ash pulled out the B&E files and sighed sadly. "Okay, let's just take another look at these," she said.

Scribbs rolled her chair around her desk so she was next to Kate. "The Boss didn't exactly yell at us," she said softly.

Ash glared at her. "Nor did he give us the best detective medal either."

"I hate robberies," Emma moaned.

"But a good old-fashioned murder sets your heart racing?"

Scribbs replied, "You make me sound like a ghoul. As a girl I couldn't stand to step on a spider and now look at me." She shook her head. "You as well. We're a couple of odd ducks."

Kate thought about her conversation with Martin. Surrounded by a pretty tea room, warm and dry, they'd discussed ways to bump people off. "Scribbs, we're not the only ones."

Scribbs dragged a map across from her desktop. "I did mark down where these robberies happened. All out here in Collins Grove."

"Nice neighborhood," Ash commented.

"I wouldn't mind having a house out there or a flat."

"Speaking of which, two are detached houses and one is duplex."

Scribbs pursed her lips. "Wondered about that."

"The duplex complaint was by Chester Wiltshire," Ash read form the file. "Says nothing was taken but a window was forced. Large foot prints found there too."

Scribbs scanned the other incident sheets. "Not much taken from the other two. Some jewelry and cash."

"Drug kids?" Ash asked. "I wonder." She picked up the desk phone and dialed. "Mr. Wiltshire please?" After a few seconds the person he wanted came to the phone. "Mr. Chester Wiltshire? This is DI Kate Ashurst of the Middleford CID. Might I and my colleague come talk to you about the robbery you reported?"

Scribbs folded her arms and waited but she squinted at the map, checked an address, then made a small mark with a pen.

"Right. Really? Tonight would be good. Fifteen minutes then. Thanks." Kate hung up. "Says he's meeting a glazier to get an estimate on the window damage."

Scribbs yawned. "I was hoping for an early night."

Ash yawned in reaction. "Stop that!"

Emma stood. "Sorry. I figured you're be tired after a train ride yesterday. How was Bath?"

"Beautiful, festive; cold. Crowded."

Emma nodded. "And Michael?"

"He called – I told him off. That's over."

"Oh Ash, I know the guy could be a bit, well, you know, demanding, or so you said."

"That's one way to put it," Kate muttered, for when he wanted to see her she was supposed to drop everything (especially her pants). "He didn't seem to care much what I thought or wanted, until the end."

Scribbs chuckled. "Well we know what he wanted."

"Oh stop it," Ash half-slapped her elbow. "Come on; field work."

"But its cold out and getting dark," moaned Scribbs.

Ash jumped up and slung her coat around herself. "Move it."

Scribbs snatched up the map. "And look what I noticed. Our endocrinologist lives less than a mile from the robberies. Ought to have seen that before."

"That warms the cockles of my heart, Scribbs," Ash told her.

"Yeah," Emma replied, "but my feet get frigid on a cold night like tonight."

"Thicker stockings, my dear Emma," Ash told her. "Best be prepared."

Scribbs laughed.


	12. Chapter 12

After telling off Michael, Kate returned to her B&B for a short rest. She put her purchases away. They included lavender soap for her mum, a leather-bound copy of _Jane Eyre_ for her sister, various trinkets for her brother-in-law and her nieces, and a very lovely blue glass vase for herself plus the stained glass image of Sulis for Scribbs. Then she kicked off her shoes, let her hair down, brushed it out thoroughly, and laid down for a short nap. She had felt a chill from the damp weather so she snuggled under the comforter fully clothed.

Must have been all the walking she supposed, as well as the excitement of meeting Martin, for she had a deep and disturbing dream. Somehow she was walking along sea cliffs and there was a dog running away from her; a large shaggy gray and black dog. Try as she might she could not catch it, but being a dream, it was necessary for some reason that she did catch it.

The dog led her on a merry chase up hills and down ravines, until she came to a tiny seaside village, perched on sheer cliffs above the sea. Here she lost the dog, for it ran around a corner, dashed up an extremely narrow lane, and disappeared from sight.

The village was old and quaint; the houses mainly of whitewashed stone and brick and the occasional frame house, but all had slate roofs. Though she wandered about for quite some time up streets and lanes, she never saw another living soul and the only sound was her solitary footsteps, the pounding of waves, and the call of noisy seagulls.

Finally she stopped by a school which was likewise built on the brink of a cliff. The houses, quiet and dark, lay behind her in the deepening dusk and she felt all alone as a cold breeze began to blow.

Just then, when her confusion about the empty village really began to grow, she saw a house across the U-shaped harbor on which the outside light switched on. Comforted by this beacon she stood close to the stone wall which kept people from going over the precipice and saw the front door open. A tall man came outside holding a cup and saucer. He stood straight and tall in a rather formal looking suit and tie, then he turned and seemed to look right at her.

"Hello?" Kate called. The man did not move, so she repeated her call at the top of her lungs. "Hello!" She waved as well, but the man didn't move, other than drink from his cup.

Wisps of fog began to form in the harbor and as they thickened into clouds, the man was obscured briefly, so Kate yelled again, putting all she had into it. "Hey! You there! Where am I? Where is everyone?"

The man across the way turned away, actually putting his hand on his door, primly carrying cup and saucer like the Holy Grail in his exactness of motions.

Kate's heart fell. Why wouldn't he answer? "Oi!" she screamed. "You there!"

That must have done it, for he turned about and answered. "Are you looking for me?"

That's when she realized it was Martin Ellingham.

"Martin!" she screamed, now in a near panic. "Yes! It's me! Kate! Kate Ashurst!"

Martin stared at her for long minutes through the thickening fog but finally shook his head. "No!" he answered. "Not you!"

"It is me!" she answered. "We met!"

Martin continued to shake his head side to side. "Sorry, but not! It's not you!" Then he turned on his heel, went into the brick house and the light was switched off.

"Martin!" Kate yelled, just as a horrible raucous seagull landed on the stone wall and started to screech at her.

"No! Go away!" Kate shrieked at it but as she flailed her arms, came to realize she was flat on her back and in bed.

"What the heck?" Kate was saying as she started from sleep. "What was that? I dreamed about Martin? Well… interesting," she said softly. It was only by washing her face in cold water in the bathroom across the hall could she really wake up. "Kate, that was a helluva dream," she said to herself more than once.

Finally she pulled her hair back into a pony tail, put an elastic band on it, and then reapplied her makeup. She sat at the dressing table and looked very hard at her reflection thinking rather unsettled thoughts. "Who are you, Kate?" she asked her image. "What are you about? Gonna be a loner for the rest of your days?"

Michael and Alex, and other former boyfriend flashed through her mind. She shook her head sadly that each of them had not been willing to take her as she was – a policewoman who enjoyed being a cop. Murders were what she enjoyed solving and none of them could ever accept her for that. Never was there anyone to take a chance on her for each one wanted to change her to suit themselves.

She thought too about Martin, he of the tea room, the dream, and the lifesaving on the square. There was a man who was intelligent, yet awkward; rude and brilliant all at once.

He saw in her who she was not, the woman whose image she wore – his ex-fiancé. Kate shook herself. "And Martin's quite alone as well," she said softly.

She looked around the comfortable room, a white fireplace, queen bed, pale yellow walls and white furniture. A painting over the headboard showed a summer scene of a pretty street in Bath, with fantastic colorful blooms springing from flowerpots and window boxes. The coverlet was yellow and white; decorated with stitched patterns of geraniums. It was nice in this B&B, and she would recommend it to her friends, but one thing was missing; someone to share it with.

After a time Kate felt she ought to have some supper, then walk around, and go to the Baths. She'd seen a sign saying the last tourists would be admitted at half seven as they were open late during the Christmas Market. She went to the Baths door and purchased her ticket for later, then took a long walk uptown towards the Fashion Museum. Nearby she had a quick meal in a small pub that was a converted carriage house, just up the street from the Jane Austin Centre, and then spent an enjoyable forty-five minutes touring the dresses displayed in the Museum.

As a modern woman, she felt extremely glad she could stroll so easily for inspecting dresses from the 18th century to the present; she shook her head over the cruel stays and corsets of earlier years. "You've come a long way baby," she said to herself, not only in clothing for the role of police was withheld from her gender until 1919. She enjoyed, though, looking at the exquisite beading, lace, and pearling adorning many of the older dresses.

Even a black dress worn by Queen Victoria was imaginatively done up with intricate lacework so fine as to be nearly invisible. "Dark but not plain," she observed. "But from a distance almost frumpy," she harrumphed, but then it hit her that the Queen's dress was seen at close quarters by the Her Ladies and Secretaries. "Poor sad and unhappy woman," she was saying as a guard approached.

"Sorry, Miss, about to lock up. About five minutes more. Have a pleasant evening," he told her.

"Thanks so much. Lovely place," she answered him as he walked her to the front door.

The man smiled. "In the summer we have lots of couples getting married in one of the Assembly Rooms on the ground floor. All that Victorian splendor," he sighed. "Our daughter got married here eight years back. It was grand."

Kate smiled at him. "I can imagine it was all quite delicious."

The man tipped his hat. "Oh it was. Now good night."

" 'Night," Kate answered as the door was locked behind her. She went back towards the Baths studying the carved house fronts, many decorated with pine ropes and garlands of berries and small white lights. She resolved to come back in summer or spring when the air was warmer and flowers were springing up everywhere.

She was practically skipping by the time she arrived at the Roman Baths door where a small queue was gathered. A docent dressed as a Roman noble was holding a torch, while another dressed in similar but more rustic garb held a long pike and shield at the ready.

That one jeered at the tourists, all part of the fun, while the faux Roman noble exhorted them to step lively, and no eating or drinking if you please, inside the Roman Baths.


	13. Chapter 13

Martin went outside the hotel and was very relieved to take a number of breaths of cool air to clear his head. He'd picked up his raincoat and left his lodgings to find affordable and more healthful dishes than the hotel served (for those were both too expensive and fat and calorie filled). All he really wanted for dinner was a nice piece of fish, a potato, and veg so he walked away from the city center, stopping occasionally to read displayed restaurant menus.

By now night had fallen and the square did not look so crammed with people as tourists scuttled off to their buses, cars, or trains. _Grockles_, Cornwellians called tourists, and he thought he had a slight glimmer of the term's meaning. _Emmets_ was another cherished term his Cornish neighbors used and he knew it meant _outsiders_, but more than that_; _more of a_ those who live elsewhere and have come out on holiday to consume over-priced food and drink, fill up the car parks and restaurants, pay too much for gewgaws and trinkets, and generally act like fools, littering all the while._

He sneered at a gaggle of teenage girls chattering some ungodly foreign jargon, eating ice cream, eyeing all the young men while nudging each other, strewing the path behind them with chewing gum wrappers and soiled tissues, and in general just leaving a mess and making a scene.

One girl tuned about, and then yelled something at him, whence all of them turned and joined in the obvious jeering.

"God," he muttered under his breath after they'd gone round the corner. He shook his head for it was like Portwenn – just like Portwenn. He walked over to the river just to stretch his legs but watched fog rise over the Avon as night fully descended. He could see the bridge to his left so he followed the street up to Pulteney Bridge where he walked across it. Shops were built on each side on the bridge and Martin admired this construction; the bridge being one of only four in the world with full-length buildings across them.

He went across and then back appreciating the bit of history he'd just experienced. He'd never been to Bath before, but he had been to Florence, and of course the Ponte Vecchio in Italy was far more famous.

He wandered away from the Avon and up the street found a small restaurant on a side street and when he saw the Fresh Fish sign in the window he went inside. The door lintels were quite low so he had to duck his head to enter. One step down, he got some head room, and saw a cracked but clean marble floor in a white and grey veining, a few tables in the front room, a host table and a small wine rack. There was a paucity of Christmas decorations so he didn't feel like sneering.

No one else was visible, but a rear door flew open and a blowsy woman rushed out pushing a damp strand of hair from her ruddy face. "Evening," she called out. "Dinner? Just you?"

"Yes," he replied.

She pursed her lips. "We got fresh grouper tonight, and some crab from across the Channel, sole, monkfish, and eels. Interested? This table alright?" she finished her recitation.

Martin nodded, so she seated him near the front window.

"Water? Still or…"

"Tap, please."

She smiled a little. "Nothing fancy for you, am I right?" She plied a pitcher and filled a glass for him. The old hostess gave him a menu and in a moment Martin ordered.

"Sole - broiled, white potatoes, sprouts. Small soup – the vegetable."

"Ah," the woman sighed happily. "I like's a man who makes up his mind," she cackled.

He nodded slowly.

"I'll get yer soup luv, straight away," she said.

In a moment she flew back with a brimming bowl of soup. "Sorry if I'm a bit worn-out lookin'. The girl was supposed to come in at twelve and didn't. Quit," she sniffed. "Me and Billy keepin' the place going just the two of us and oh the tourists! Jabberin' away like magpies, demandin' this and that,…" She stopped. "Sorry. You don't want to hear this rubbish. Been run off my feet today."

Martin had bent his head to his soup and took a taste. This, he could tell, was a very nice soup, well flavored, full of vitamins, and the broth was not just water but a full bodied tomato stock. "Good soup," he told her, if only to make her shut up.

He got a huge smile for her efforts. "Thang kew! That's my mum's recipe."

In some way this woman reminded him of a certain ex-plumber, not only in age and size, but also in temperament, other than the obvious gender differences of wide hips, huge breasts and long hair.

Martin sipped his water while the woman looked down at him. "What do you want?" he asked.

She smiled. "You remind me of my boy, 'course he's not quite as old as you, but as tall. He always banged his head on the beam over the door, every time he walked in. Hair and eyes same as yours as well," she sighed. "Me and the hubby been hopin' he and his lady can get home for Christmas."

Not wanting to engage in a discussion of her progeny he grunted and returned to eating.

Soon the entrée came and he smelled it as soon as the door opened. The sole was delectable, the potatoes impeccable, and the sprouts flawlessly steamed and not mushy.

Somewhere along the tail end of his fish, the street door opened, and an older couple peeped in. "Open? Are they open?" he heard the woman ask the man with her.

"I think, my dear that they are," Martin heard a gravelly voice reply.

Martin studiously applied himself to eating and ignored the couple as they came in, were seated, and listened to the exposition about specials.

The hostess returned to his table so Martin had to look up at her. "Coffee, I'm thinkin'?" she asked.

"No chance of an expresso is there?"

"No, but French press, if you want that."

"Good." Martin finished his meal and waited for coffee overhearing the other diners discuss the menu, the surroundings, prices in the Christmas Market, the quality of food, the way their feet and ankles were hurting… he tuned them out or tried to, reviewing some of the rubbish presentations he'd sat through. Curse Parsons for making him come! Blast – nearly a waste of time, he knew, and yet, tea with Kate Ashurst was right there in his head and he sighed almost wistfully over that part of his day.

"Excuse me?" someone called to him and Martin started. "You're that person on the square, right?"

He looked at the other diners, the old couple, for they were addressing him. He vaguely felt he should know them but could only stare at them vacantly. "No," he said automatically.

"But, it is, Richard, look! It's that nice man who did the Hamlisch thing on you."

Martin looked more closely at them and realized it was the choking couple. "Heimlich Manoeuver," he corrected. He stood and walked over to their table. On closer inspection he realized they were old, older than Aunt Joan. "Are you well?" he asked the man.

"Oh he's fine now, thanks to you," the woman gushed. "That was remarkable."

Martin shook his head. "No it wasn't." He turned back to the man. "Any throat irritation will pass in time."

"I thi…" the man started to say,

His wife butted in. "I told Richard he must be more careful when he chews his food!"

Martin saw the long suffering look in the man's eyes. Ah, he knew her type."Shush," he said to the woman. "Chewing your food is also part of taking small enough bites that they may be properly masticated before being swallowed."

"He always does that," the woman threw out. "Gulps his food. I was telling him just before he started to choke that he…"

Martin slammed a hand down on the table. "Be quiet!" he told her through gritted teeth. "Now," he turned to the man, "based on the fact that you are of a certain age, and your cheeks appear to be sunken, you wear dentures."

"Uhm, yes, I do."

"And they are mis-fitting due to the shrinkage of gum tissue. You ought to get your teeth properly refitted so they do not slop about and impede your chewing."

The wife sat there open-mouthed in rage, her cheeks red as apples. "I've never in my life been so insulted!"

Martin turned his head to address her. "And _you_ ought to work on calming yourself to lower your blood pressure." He took her wrist and rapidly counted her pulse. "Your blood pressure is likely elevated based on your rapid pulse, bulging eyes, and reddened cheeks. When's the last time you saw your GP?" He looked her up and down. "And you could likely lose a stone or two just to be on the safe side."

Martin then turned on his heel and returned to his table. The hostess chose to deliver his coffee and his check at that moment and he was pulling out his wallet for his cash card when a tall and slim female figure with a long ponytail flitted past the window. He started, pulled a twenty from his wallet and dropped it on the table. "Must go," he blurted out and went out the door in pursuit.


	14. Chapter 14

Ash and Scribbs found a woman measuring the remains of a twisted window frame at Wilshire's house. The house was a brick 2-storey duplex, with a red roof and the doors of both sides of the building faced the street. The damaged window was on the side at the rear, and the ivy bed below the broken window was trampled and messy.

Scribbs went up to her and asked, "Mr. Wilshire about?"

"Inside," said the petite brunette. The script on her uniform jacket said '_Jiffy Windows_ – You break 'em we fix 'em.'

Ash was examining the window frame which was damaged on the latch side, since it was hinged vertically. "What you think did that?"

"Pinch-bar," the woman said. "Right here," she pointed to a gouge in the side frame. "One good heave and _pop_; out it comes. Bends the frame just enough to get past the latch."

"Would it take a lot of strength to do that?" Ash said.

The woman looked at her curiously. "Why do you need to know?"

Ash flashed her badge. "Police."

"Ah. Sorry. No, long enough bar or a strong enough person. Like I said…"

"Yeah, pop," Ash replied.

Scribbs had already gone to the front door and rapped on it. "Mr. Wilshire?"

A skinny bald man of about thirty-five came to the door. "Who are you?"

Scribbs fished out her ID and showed him. "DI Scribbins."

"Oh, come in," he said nervously.

"And this is my partner DI Ashurst," Emma told him when Ash followed her inside. "You reported a break-in last week."

"The uniforms already came by and wrote it up," he told them.

"We know," Ash replied. "We're also investigating an unexplained death."

His face fell. "I know; it's about Jim."

Scribbs and Ash exchanged glances. "Jim?" Scribbs said.

The man nodded. "Jim Moore. Jim and I were at school together. Best mates. I can't figure out how he ended up in that pond. Worked out, biked, lifted weights, ran mini-marathons; all that, but he didn't swim. He hated the water – said it got up his nose."

"Oh?" Ash remarked. "Back to your break-in?"

"Funny thing," Wilshire said, "I don't think anything was taken."

Scribbs pulled out a notepad and wrote on it. "Nothing, you say?"

Ash looked around the neat front room, opening into a dining area and a kitchen nook. White carpets, teak and glass furniture, and abstract art on the walls. Seemed Mr. Wilshire was doing fairly well for himself.

"You have nothing anyone would want to steal?" asked Scribbs for she'd made a quick visual inventory of the house and had ratcheted up Wilshire's estimated salary into the mid-100s.

He scratched his neck nervously. "Well I don't _think_ so. I wasn't here. I've checked the house and garden and nothing is missing."

Emma said, "You were away, Mr. Wilshire?"

He sighed. "I travel for work. I'm with a firm which puts up mobile towers and telecom systems and I was down in Morocco. You can call my boss to confirm it. Here's my card."

Ash looked over Scribbs' shoulder at the off-beige business card. "We will check this."

Wilshire told them. "I've no problem with it."

Ash glanced at Scribbs who had rolled her eyes and Ash nodded back at her. Emma continued with the questions. "Bit far to go for work, ain't it?"

"Not really. I travel all over. You should see my passport."

"You can verify when you were away?" Ash added.

"I can." Wilshire walked over to a desk in back room, opened a drawer and returned with his British passport, and it was nearly an inch thick. "They had to glue in extra pages." It was packed with stamps and seals and looked well used. He flipped towards the back and the last entries showed dates of entry and exit for Morocco. "There for eight days. See? I just got home a few days ago."

Ash opened her notepad. "I see that's when you reported the break in. When did it happen?"

He nodded. "That's when I called the cops. Made a proper report. You can check."

Ash smiled at him. "We know and we have. I see that you reported it the day after you returned."

His head bobbed up and down. "As soon as I found out."

"So you weren't here?" Scribbs prodded. "Oh, right; Morocco."

He looked from one to the other rubbing his hands nervously. "Look, I'm not in any trouble am I?"

"No, should you be?" Scribbs asked as she gave Ash a quiet look.

Ash cleared her throat. "Mr. Wilshire, you reported it when you got back or when it happened?"

He sighed. "Look, here's the thing, the house next door is empty; my neighbors went to Majorca for the winter, so there's no one about. I asked Jim, Jim Moore, to keep an eye on things."

"You said he's a friend, _was_ a friend. Sorry." Scribbs said.

"Hard to get my head around it," he shook his head. "You see at Jim's place, well they're doing construction on the byway near his place, at night, lots of trucks and things, and he told me couldn't sleep. So I told him to come here when it got too noisy. He's got a key. Plus he could keep an eye on things when I'm traveling."

"So _he_ was here," Ash said, "at the time of the break-in."

"Yes. He was." Chester seemed to shrink. "But, here's where it might get sticky."

"In what way?" Scribbs asked.

Wilshire sighed. "Jim has a friend, uhm, and the two of them were here; in bed, middle of the night. Jim said he didn't hear anything, but the woman told him she thought she heard a creaking noise; woke her up. Must have been when the window got pried open."

"Let me guess," Ash grinned triumphantly, "her name is Susan."

"Oh you know about her," Wilshire sighed. "But I suppose that's why you're detectives."

Scribbs grinned. "Too right."

"There's more," he said softly. "Jim told me that Susan told _him_ the next morning that she could have sworn that somebody came right into the bedroom."

Ash's eyebrows went up. "Really? So someone broke in _and_ entered the bedroom, you say?"

Chester shrugged. "You'll have to talk to her. But I get the impression the robber stood over the bed and just stood there for a few seconds and then left. Susan told Jim she was scared to death so she pretended to be sleeping. Just lay there until he left. Jim told me that she was so scared she swore she'd never come here again."

"About done here," called the '_Jiffy Window_' worker but now she was holding a clipboard. "You want steel frames or aluminum? Insurance might balk at the price but the steel ones are stronger."

The man shook his head miserably. "Oh, I don't know. I can't figure it."

Scribbs grinned at Ash. "Us as well. But we'll get it sooner or later."

He coughed. "Why would someone break in and not steal anything?"

Scribbs closed her notebook. "Thank you Mr. Wilshire."

"But what about the window? You think I should worry? Should I put bars up, or replace the ground floor windows, or what?"

Ash pursed her lips. "I think you're quite safe."

"But weren't there other houses got into as well?" Chester wrung his hands.

"Sir, the frame?" the window installer asked.

"We'll leave you to it," Scribbs told him. "Thanks for your time."

In the car Scribbs asked Ash, "Does it make any sense?"

Ash sighed as she did up her seat harness. "Makes perfect sense. Nothing was taken. Whoever it was got inside, scouted the place and left. Not a robbery."

"Yeah, unless they were… well, what?"

Ash said, "I think we ought to review the other break-ins. Did they happen before or after this one? And Weatherall owes us an answer."

Scribbs snapped her belt on and started the car. "Plus we need to re-interview Susan Ostercroft, don't you think?"

"Not unless we want her to think that telling us only part of the story is perfectly fine."

Scribbs drove half a block before she commented, "Mrs. Ostercroft is not the only one telling half stories."

Ash nodded. "Her husband spun one as well."

"No Ash. Of course _both_ Ostercrofts but I meant _you_."

"Me?"

"You were telling me about the GP you met in Bath."

"Oh him."

"I tell you about all my guys."

"He's not my guy, Scribbs!" Ash practically yelled. "Drop it."

"Well what then?"

Ash looked away. "Later perhaps."

"Later as in later _today_, or _tomorrow_, or just when?" Scribbs pursed her lips. "You'll have to come clean Kate. Truth will out."

Ash bit on her lip. "Just drive Scribbs. Let's re-read the files, and talk to Weatherall, and then we'll tackle the Ostercrofts."

Scribbs sighed. Oh, Kate, she thought, what happened to you? "Fine."

"Fine what?" Ash snapped.

"Nothing."


	15. Chapter 15

While Ash thought about the next step in the investigation, which seemed to be growing tendrils like ivy under an overdose of fertilizer, she tried to keep work things center-most; the body, the path report, the doctor and his wayward wife, the break-in where nothing was stolen… But while this was going on in the back of her mind, she was hiding the root of her tension from Scribbs.

Scribbs was wrestling with the wheel, fighting it out with traffic, for typically near the city centre it had gone pear shaped this time of the day. "I hate this," she said aloud. "Come on, come on," she muttered as a lorry decided to make an awkward lane change taking up two lanes. "That Wilshire fellow said he had nothing anybody would want? I'd kill for that house of his. Did you check out that carpet? The pile must have been three inches deep!"

"Scribbs?"

"Yeah? _Move it_!" Scribbs yelled as she lay on the hooter.

"Sorry I've been…" Ash waved a hand, "Oh, weird."

"We all have our moments. But yeah, you have been more refractory than useful."

"Refractory?"

"Part of my _learn-a-word-per-day program_. Refractory; means _contrary_ or _difficult_. Also relates to ceramics."

"Whatever. Look Scribbs," Ash moaned, "_my_ moments lately have been rather…"

"Brassed off, if you ask me." Emma cranked the wheel around and squeezed around the lorry, whose driver responded with up thrust finger. "Same to you; _arse_," she hissed and looked at Kate for her partner was gazing straight ahead. "You okay over there?"

Ash shook herself. "Not quite hunky-dory am I?"

Scribbs sighed. "Who is? So… cough it up. You'll feel better after it. Think of me as your mum. Is this about Michael?"

"If I really wanted to talk to my mum, I'd call her. And no, not about Michael, but he started it."

The traffic signal ahead turned red and traffic lurched to a stop. "Right," Scribbs said. "This is a long light, so you're got ninety seconds, or there abouts, to tell me what's got you so beastly."

Ash took a deep breath. "I told you I met this GP down in Bath."

"And he said something about potassium chloride. That's what's upset you?"

"Forget chemistry, Scribbs!" Ash said edgily. "Have you ever looked in the mirror and wondered if someone else has your face?"

"Some mornings, especially on a Monday, I wish that my _whole_ head _was_ on someone else's shoulders; hung-over."

"Not what I meant." Ash paused as she looked for words. "No I mean a _double_ of you - your hair, your looks; that sort of thing."

Scribbs pawed at her short lank blonde hair. "My hair? They can have it. I always wondered how identical twins get by."

"Not a twin, Scribbs. Something else."

Scribbs stared down at her body. "I mean some of me is _sort of_ okay, but the rest?" she shrugged. "You think that men are into the kinds of self-criticisms that we women say and think about?"

"Men aren't expected to look perfect at all times, Scribbs."

"Lucky them."

"Part of the _Western precept that women must be more bathing beauty rather than thinking creatures_." Ash smiled. "Sorry – part of a feminist lecture from school days."

Scribbs laughed. "Most days I feel anything _but_ beautiful _or_ smart, and besides you're getting off subject."

Ash bit her lip. "Okay here's the thing; back to the GP."

"Ellingham was his name, you told me earlier. Knows about both chemistry and poisoning."

"That's him. He told me he was engaged to a woman named Louisa, and that for some reason he thought I looked like her."

"Looked like her," Scribbs repeated slowly. "Then I think she's a very lucky woman."

Ash grinned. "Thanks for small favors. No I mean it. He seemed to think that I was her double – face, hair, eyes, height, all that."

"Cor. Must have been a whack job."

Ash shook her head. "No he's as sane as you and me, maybe more. I looked him up – scads of medical papers in all the journals. Titles like _'Superficial Epigastric Vein Anastomoses Fixation'_ and _'Treatment of Reiter Syndrome with TNF Inhibiters'_"

"I think I got about two words there; no three in the first one. You said he was engaged."

"They didn't marry."

"Ah. Was he creepy? That it?"

Ash looked straight ahead. "No."

The signal turned green and traffic between to crawl forward.

Ash turned slightly to look at Scribbs. "I made a huge mistake, I think."

"How huge? Really, really huge like alert the Press and it will shock the Queen, or something to cry in your pillow over?" Scribbs jumped excitedly. "Don't tell me! You went to bed with him?"

"Did not! How can you ask that?"

"I don't know - the words just popped out. Maybe I'm a sex fiend."

"Scribbs you are no more a sex fiend than the rest of us."

Scribbs laughed. "Only because of a lack of opportunity."

Unhappy silence filled the car for a while, until Scribbs cleared her throat. "You left me hanging, Ash."

"Nothing to add."

"Oh?" Scribbs turned and saw Ash biting her lip. "I think there's more. Mistake, you said?"

Kate thought back to Saturday night. She counted the days since; Sunday, Monday, Tuesday – three days. "Yep," Kate sighed softly. "Colossal."

Scribbs chuckled. "Now it's gone from huge to colossal."

Kate shook her head. "I Googled his ex."

"Oh God."

"Yeah, oh God."

"And?"

"And what?"

"Does she? I mean do you? Hell. Look like her?"

Ash sighed once again. "I did find a picture, from the school in their village. She used to be Head Teacher and there she was."

"Oh dear," Scribbs answered. "Twilight Zone time."

"Scribbs," Ash said slowly, "this Louisa Glasson and me could be twins."

Scribbs shivered. "Now that is creepy."

Ash rubbed her arms and her head drooped. "Yep."


	16. Chapter 16

Martin knew what he was doing was wrong, so very wrong. Once his father had sat him down and stared at him sternly. He'd looked up at dad and braced himself for the storm to break. This particular incident, and what had caused it, was not important. Most important was the _principle_ he had been handed.

"Why, Martin?" dad yelled.

Martin could only give a very faint shrug.

"Why? Didn't you know it was wrong?"

Martin nodded slowly.

"Well if you knew it was wrong then why in Heaven's name did you proceed?" Dad ran his hands over his face. "You do know what this means."

Martin braced himself then shook his head no.

Dad paced around the room several times while Martin heard his mum opening the cabinet where the liquor was stored and from the clink of glass on glass could tell that she'd poured herself a shot of whiskey.

Martin closed his eyes in regret for when mum got to drinking, that made dad cross, and when dad got really cross he'd leave the house, thusly abandoning Martin to the whims of mum. "Sorry Dad," Martin muttered.

"Not good enough!"

"No, I really, really, really am sorry."

His father had stopped pacing and glared at him. "If you were driving a car..."

"Too young to drive."

"I know that blast it! Just saying that if you could drive a car, and you were, and the macadam ended, and then went to gravel, and then to dirt, and then into a mucky bog, would you keep driving? Even when the car was up to the axles in sticky mud?"

Martin shrugged, knowing better then to argue.

Dad looked hard at him. "Look, Martin, if you know it's the wrong thing to do then why do it?"

The woman walking ahead of him down the dark street was hurrying, and from the way she checked her watch, she must be late. Martin lengthened his stride and slowly managed to get closer. She was still a hundred feet ahead when he slowed his steps not wanting to worry her. There were people about on the streets, but it was dark, and he did not want her to think that he was chasing her, or at least had evil intent.

But the black coat was the same, boots and trousers likewise from what he remembered, but now those long glorious locks were lowered from the top of her head and gathered into a pony tail. It was Kate... Kate, not Lousia, he knew, but all the same...

Martin stopped for a few seconds remembering many of the '_good talking to's_' he got at home or in his school years.

"_If you know_ it's the wrong thing to do then _why_ do it?" the words echoed in his memory. He feared that someday when he died those may be the last words ringing through his brain as his cerebral tissues faded and died due to a lack of oxygen.

He'd used that very tone and those very words at Imperial College when one of the registrars royally fouled up. Time and time again he'd caught some colossal blunder – a miswritten prescription, a badly interpreted lab result, or a horrible slip-up during surgery. That was when he unlimbered both barrels of his ire on the pathetic wretch who had made an error. Some would turn pale under the lash of his tongue, or slump back against a wall their body shacking in fear, and once a boob of a feckless doctor had actually fainted at his feet and then had vomited on his brilliantly polished black shoes.

The woman walking ahead of him turned the corner by the Bath Abbey, and he paused for another second, then took the bit in his teeth and sped on, quickening his pace until he was nearly running

Past the Abbey he skirted the confused milling of people o the city square, and then he spied her just ahead, her ponytail swishing back and forth, joining the queue at the door to the Roman Baths.

Martin knew his behavior was wrong; knew it was weird and very, very strange, but like iron filings attracted to a strong magnet he was powerless to resist the pull.

He skidded to a stop and watched the queue enter the building, as costumed guides chivvied them inside.

One guide carried a pike and shield and that one turned a toothy grin on Martin. "You comin' mate? Last tour of the night, so you better get a move on. Yes or no?"

Martin Ellingham gulped and then nodded slowly. "If you know it's the wrong thing..." echoed in his head but one more phrase too, but this one said by a plumber, "Go with the flow, Doc."

"Come on, in you get," the guide said and taking Martin by the elbow got him through the door.


	17. Chapter 17

Kate fished her pre-bought ticket from her handbag and showed it to the bright young man at the ticket counter.

"Yes," he nodded as he took it and scanned the barcode on the face of it. He gave Kate a guide pamphlet. "We also have these tourist guides, both paper and audio. Care to buy a book or rent an audio guide?"

Kate rocked her head. "Yes, an audio guide." She slid her cash-card to him and he scanned it. The man showed her how the electronic device worked.

"When you see a number on an exhibit, key it in here," the clerk instructed. "Pressing volume up and down here, you can stop, or back up the tour with these buttons…"

Kate nodded. "I get it, thanks." She put her card away, took the audio guide from the man, pressed the number 1 on the keypad and held it to her ear.

A soft woman's voice started speaking, "Welcome to the world famous Roman Baths of Bath, England which has been recognized as a World Heritage site. While you are visiting with us we hope that you enjoy your visit. While photographs are permitted, there is no eating or drinking inside the site. Please be considerate of other guests so that all our visitors may enjoy their time here and learn of the history of these historic Baths."

Kate pushed open large bronze doors ahead and passed on to an open-air terrace which surrounded the Great Bath, a large rectangular basin filled with pale green water which seemed to glimmer under bright lights.

While Kate became immersed in the history of the Baths and ancient Rome, as well as the Celtic peoples who had lived here before and after the Roman invasion of Britain, Martin completed his ticket purchase and declined an audio guide rental, but did purchase a guidebook, if only to give him something to hide behind.

Out on the terrace he watched as a pony-tailed Kate strolled along, holding the audio player to her ear. Her face was lit from below by reflected light from the ancient pool where people used to soak in the warm waters. Not only electric lights illuminated the scene below, but also gas-fired lamps in open bowls were bolted to columns below

Martin idly flipped through the book in his hands then raised it near his face, but he wasn't reading - he was watching Detective Ashurst.

As he stood by the railing watching her, a voice by his ear asked him, "Quite a sight, isn't it?'

Martin turned his eyes to the voice and found the toga-dressed guide at his side. For some reason the man reminded him of Penhale. "Yes," he muttered in reply. Perhaps it was the wide-eyed look the man had and a half-smile across his face that reminded him of the village cop.

"I like to stand up here, get a deep breath, smell the minerals in the waters down there, and imagine the way things used to be," the costumed actor told him. "Of course, I just got here from Londinium myself. You?"

Martin was not happy that his inspection of Kate was interrupted. "Yes," he answered.

The man hitched the woolen stole over his shoulders higher. "The priestess told me to get a good dunking to ease the stiffness of my back."

"They claimed the waters were good for lots of illnesses and conditions." Martin grunted, "Likely the salts helped them move their bowels and the warm water would help arthritis." He looked closely at the man's lined face. "Your age tells me that you are a prime candidate for aches and pains. Eat more fruit is my advice, stay off the fried foods, and take light exercise. You may also take non-steroidal anti-inflammatories to ease aches and pains."

The actor's face took on a nervous look. "You're a doctor."

"Yes."

"Right." The man grinned at him. "Have a nice evening," he added, then set off to find a tourist who was slightly interested in playing the game of pretending to be in the past. Some folk just don't get it, he knew, but he grumbled to himself all the same. "No sense of play."

Martin's head whipped up as he saw Kate reach a doorway and disappear for while he'd been detained she'd continued with the tour. Yes, Martin thought, that docent might be a bit off, but at least he's not stalking someone for the second time today.

Kate entered a small museum space showing common artifacts of the long ago, a small model of the Baths and Temple which she inspected closely, then moved on listening to her guide as she went.

Turning a corner she was faced by a carved panel fixed to the wall, where she saw the image duplicated on the stained-glass she'd bought. Here was Sulis Minerva, or a Gorgon's Head, or perhaps the Celtic god of the spring. Kate also learned about the bronze statue of Minerva, here called Sulis Minerva - part of the melding of Roman with local gods - whose face stared at her with a pitted bronze face which was still partially covered with gold.

In spite of the audio guide which gushed on about the goddess Minerva, Kate found herself drawn back to the face of Sulis. The way his long hair and beard appeared to be twisting and flowing, though carved from limestone, she found both striking and unsettling. What did people think when they entered the ancient temple under that face nearly two thousand years ago? Were they bringing ailments to pray over, or deadly illnesses, or broken hearts?

To blazes with Michael she thought as she looked at the cared visage. She caught herself. Michael wanted her on his terms and not hers, but, she recalled that she had been fractious with him too. Yes her job was important, yes she was overly busy at times, and yes it was her dream job. Was it _his_ fault that he didn't see it that way? For that matter, she sighed, did she try as much as she ought to have with Michael? How many boyfriends had she gone through in the past three years? She ticked them off on her fingers; three, no four. Too many.

And then there was the Boss - DCI Paul Sullivan. She knew there was attraction between them, at least on her part. However during the stake out in the car, when they were getting the goods on the lady who wanted her husband killed was interesting. She bit her lip as she thought about it, for when the suspect turned towards them Paul had swept her into his arms and kissed her soundly. Her mouth had opened both in surprise and desire and his tongue had flicked into her mouth briefly.

Later while the whole station was sniggering over the videotape of the event, there was an awful lot of speculation over exactly _who_ had kissed _who_. Kate shook her head for she really had made a huge mistake when she angrily demonstrated for the entire squad how she would have kissed the Boss if she'd wanted to. However, his lips were very nice as she held his lapels and pressed her lips against his manly ones - and his aftershave was rather nice.

So, Kate, she asked herself, what will it take to break free of serial boyfriends - each one a lousy experience? So, she shook herself for she needed to do something about Sullivan. He was a nice man, quite handsome, he smelled great, was tall, strong, self-confident, and on all marks would be a great one to get close to, but for one issue - he was her boss.

"Boss," she said softly looking up at the face of Sulis, "what can I do about you?"

Kate shook her head over the matter while also thinking about Martin Ellingham, the sorrowful GP, who may be _somewhat_ like herself she sensed. He was a loner, and lonely, that was easy to see but he had been able to reach out to Louisa Glasson. From the way he looked at her across the tea table it was very clear that the two had been intimate and that felt very odd considering his admission that she and Louisa were near twins.

Kate knew how much it hurt to have invested time and effort, as well as emotions, into a relationship, and then to try and pick up the pieces when it all went smash. It was like a death at times and it hurt terribly. Even Michael, as self-centered as he could be, had his nice points, once in a while but that was over and done.

She stood motionless pondering these things when she heard a semi-familiar heavy tread approaching, so she stepped around the corner and tried to hide.

Martin was staring up at the face of the carved Gorgon when a swishing form surprised him in the dimly lit room.

"Following me again, Dr. Ellingham?" Kate asked him. "Or just taking in the sights?" She self-consciously reached back and stroked her pony-tail.

Martin tried to look surprised that he was seeing her again. "Uhm, Detective Ashurst… I'd no idea you were here."


	18. Chapter 18

Kate saw wariness behind his eyes. "Oh?"

"Yes… I thought… since I was here… in Bath… I ought to tour the exhibit."

Kate hefted her audioguide. "This says this fellow on the wall is a Gorgon. What does your discerning eye tell you?"

Martin read the placard. "Appears to be the face of a man and not a monster."

She grinned. "Same wavelength, good doctor. I think this guy is Sulis the local deity who was here _before_ the Romans arrived."

Martin nodded, unsure what she meant about wavelength. "Ah."

"I'm only saying that you and I agree."

Some other tourists got close, so Kate took his arm and pulled him into the next room where more relics were displayed along with signs and photographs.

"Now," Kate said a bit forcefully, "I want to know what you are doing."

Martin mutely held up his guidebook, but then lowered it for it was clear to Kate what he had been doing. "No. I'm sorry." He ducked his head. "I'll go."

Before Kate could reply, he turned on his heel and left the exhibit. She shook her head, followed around a corner and across a suspended walkway made of plastic and steel.

Martin plunged on both frightened and ashamed. What had he done? he wondered. This is exactly the sort of asinine and impulsive behavior that got people shipped off to gaol! Ahead the elevated path passed over ancient paving stones, and joggled around a square stone a meter tall, with inscriptions on it. A cluster of clinically obese folk blocked his way so he read the explanation on the wall, fearing Kate might catch up.

'_Haruspex Stone,'_ he read silently, 'which likely supported a statute of the goddess Sulis Minerva. Inscriptions state it was erected by _L. Marcius Memor_, who as a haruspex, was empowered to interpret omens and give advice.'

"Rather like a doctor, wouldn't you say?" Kate whispered to Martin who had indeed caught up.

Martin froze, afraid to move a muscle for he was caught with his hand in the biscuits. What could he say to her? What _ought_ he to say? Finally he went factual, his default response. "Perhaps not," he finally managed to mutter. "More of a voodoo practitioner interpreting blood clots on a sacrificial animal's liver, or the erratic flight of birds, or…"

Kate interjected, "_Or _make some sense of why you are following me, once more."

He sighed deeply and Kate heard it very well over the hub-bub of the noisy tourists who still blocked the way ahead.

"I'm sorry. I shall leave you," he muttered after a long silence.

Kate propped a hand on her hip. "Look, I know that you are hurting – really aching – but I'm _not_ her."

He swallowed painfully and answered her. "I know."

"Our tea was fine, informative; I liked your company and I suspect you did as well, but…"

"You are _not_ my ex-fiancé."

"Right." As Kate looked him full in the face, the noisy tourists cleared out. "Perhaps we ought to keep going – the exhibit."

"Yes."

They stood side by side looking at steaming water rushing out of an ancient pipe, the stones tinged reddish-orange.

Martin wrinkled his nose. "Stinks like sulfur."

"And at forty-six Centigrade," Kate read the sign. "Pretty hot. Hard to believe that algae can grow at the temperature."

Martin shook his head. "Actual _Rhodophyta_, or red algae, need a temperature of 56 C and a much lower pH as is common in geysers and thermally active vents. These are likely _Cyanidium_, which can grow in caves and cooler flows."

Kate puckered her lips at his scientific lecture. "Okay."

Martin went on, "But nearly hot enough to scald you severely all the same," he continued. "One-twenty F, or 49 C, is the borderline of a scald injury."

Kate muttered back, "I've seen that happen in abuse cases."

Martin grunted. "When I was a student I rotated through a burn ward."

"But you became a surgeon."

Martin was still for a few seconds as his mind raced. How far down this path was he willing to go? "Yes, like my father."

"But you left that."

He dodged her implied question. "The country needs plenty of general practitioners. Cornwall especially when I retrained."

Kate nodded her head to the side. "Come on, let's get moving." So she set off.

"The incidence of benign neglect amongst rural populations regarding even simple ailments is huge." he told her, as he followed. "Diabetes, high blood pressure, cancers and even highly contagious diseases…" his voice failed when he came into the large room that was The Great Bath. "Lord," he added.

Colonnades of pillars supported the roof above and the place was huge – perhaps fifty feet wide and a hundred long. "Wow," Kate blurted out as she craned her head back and forth. She knew that pretty much everything above ground was built in the 1800s on the foundations of the old, but still it was pretty darn breath taking..

"Uhm, impressive," Martin said at last, half for the sight of the huge pool and the swinging of Kate's ponytail.

She looked at him curiously for he looked gob-smacked. "You alright Martin?"

His eyes pivoted towards her but he said nothing.

"History: that's the way I was at Stonehenge; just absorbed by the sight," Kate continued if only to cover his intent look. "They don't know if it's 4000 or 500 years old. If might actually be older than the Great Pyramid at Giza."

Martin was listening to her, but the words seemed to be going over his head. "History."

Kate stopped. "Bet you don't need me to give you a lesson about antiquities."

He shook his head. "Beg pardon?"

She gazed at him wondering why she hadn't fled.

"Something wrong?" he said at last.

Kate reached back and took his elbow. "Come on, that actor over there is yawning and checking his watch. We'd better go."

"I don't believe the Romans had wristwatches," he muttered.

Kate smiled for in his own way Martin did tell jokes. "Well that one has his inside a rucksack."

Martin sneered. "Not quite accurate, no."

She led him around the Great Bath, the warm water talking some of the chill out of the air. She took out her mobile and took a few snaps of the scene.

Martin shook his head as mobile pictures were rubbish – if you wanted a real photograph one should use a camera.

"Sorry," Kate said. "My nieces will enjoy these."

"Fine," Martin said and he tried to just relax and spending time with Kate if only for a little while longer.

She almost saw him smile just then. "Let's get on." She dropped her mobile back in her handbag and turned almost taking his arm again, but she self-consciously stopped the swing of her arm.

Martin quickly snapped his arms down to his sides and faced straight ahead and began to walk, as Kate walked by his side.

Various other tourists were talking to the costumed actors, learning about ancient Romans, Celts, or the Baths themselves – both ancient and modern history – largely ignoring the tall man and the dark-haired woman who strolled past them, who were trying very hard not to look at each other.


	19. Chapter 19

Scribbs came from the loo shaking drops of water from her hands. "No bloody towels in there," she moaned, "and the water is freezing!" She stuck her hands under her armpits to warm them. "Bloody station is going to hell," she muttered.

Right then Officer Gallimore sauntered past with a leer. "Need to hold something warm to help you out?" he snorted.

"Bugger off," Scribbs told the man then stomped to her desk muttering to herself. She found Ash peering at her map. "You like my map."

Ash nodded. "Look at this. Wilshire's duplex is here, call it house 3. Five streets over here is house number 1, and eight streets the other way is house 2, all of the break-ins in Collins Grove." She put a slender fingertip right on the X that Emma had marked earlier. "And right up here…"

"Told ya," smirked Scribbs. "The doc's house."

Ash peered more closely at the map. "And very near the bike path that cuts through Collins Grove," she said with a self-satisfied tone. "And he said he didn't ride a bike."

"Maybe he meant not right at that moment."

Ash stuck out her tongue.

Scribbs took up her phone. "I'm calling Susan Ostercroft." The call went through and when she heard Susan's voice said, "Mrs. Ostercroft? Hi! Emma Scribbs… yes the policewoman."

Ash pointed at her watch and flashed her hand four times.

"Can I and DI Ashurst come over for a visit? No?" Scribbs pulled a notepad over and picked up a pencil. "Yep. We can meet there. Thirty minutes you say?"

Ash nodded assent.

"Okay, fine, good, see you. What about? Oh just some questions about Mr. Moore. Right see you soon." Emma dropped the phone. "A restaurant she likes over on Townshend Road." She held up the address so Ash could read it.

"I know the place," Ash responded. "_The Peasant_. Bit posh."

"With a name like that figures. Just for coffee she said and how do _you_ know about it?"

"John took me there once."

"Was this John A the attorney?"

Ash stood and got into her coat. "John B."

Scribbs smiled. "I could never keep those two straight.

"Beason was the attorney. Armstrong was the civil engineer."

Emma picked up her gear and her coat. "Who made more money?"

"The engineer; there's money in sewerage."

Emma laughed. "Who knew?"

_The Peasant_ restaurant was everything the name did not imply. Oak walls, white marble floor, and a carved celling gave the impression of age and money. The tables and chairs in the luxurious dining room looked massive with each table set for four with scads of crystal and silver.

"Gor, look at this," Emma whispered to Ash. "Must go back to the Tudors. I feel like I ought to have left my shoes by the door."

Kate shook her head. "Nope. All new in 1950. There was a restaurant here before, but it got flattened in The Blitz."

The maître d approached with an oily smile on shining black shoes. "How may I help madams?" he asked in a sibilant voice.

Ash smiled. "We're meeting Mrs. Ostercroft here."

"Of course," he looked oddly at their coats – Kate's in black and Emma's which was green wool and a bit tatty, having seen better days and eateries. "Would you like to check your coats?"

"No," Scribbs told him. "Won't be here that long."

The man looked absolutely scandalized. "If you wish," he sighed like his heart was broken.

"See?" Scribbs whispered to Ash as he led them through the place. "Next time he will make us leave our shoes outside."

The man took them to the very back of the dining room, down a hall, around a corner and into a glass-covered conservatory. There at a table all by herself sat Susan Ostercroft in a bright red dress.

"Doesn't she look full of grief?" Kate said quietly to her friend who only smiled briefly.

"Very good of you to meet us," Scribbs said to the doctor's wife as she got out her notes.

Susan dabbed at her nose with a tissue. "I'm meeting Thomas here so you can't stay long." She sighed. "Haven't been here in ages," she yawned. "After you called I got a line through to Thomas and he's meeting me here. He was not happy I suggested this place for dinner. He claim's it's too snobbish, but he and I used to come here _all_ the time," her face fell, "when we were dating."

Susan watched as the two detectives settled themselves. "I've ordered coffee and tea for us."

Scribbs looked at the vines growing along the inside of the glass roof. "I like this bit."

"Yes, they keep it heated enough during the cold weather so these don't freeze." Their witness leaned back. "Now, what _do_ you want?"

Kate nodded. "We have a few questions about you and Mr. Moore."

The tissue came out and a few sniffles came forth. "Go on."

Scribbs cleared her throat. "I know this is hard for you Mrs. Ostercroft, but in the case of Mr. Moore…"

"Yes," she sighed, "Jimmy was nice. A real charmer."

"That much we know," Ash replied. "We understand that you were with him on a certain night; the night someone tried to break into the house you were in."

Her eyes had gone wide all the whites showing. "Oh."

"Yes, oh," Scribbs answered. "You were at Jimmy's friend's house, weren't you?"

The woman nodded her head. "Yesss, it was so…"

"Why didn't you tell us about this earlier?" Scribbs said. "It may be useful."

Susan sat back in her chair and hugged herself. "I… well, we… _were_ there. Chester was off somewhere out of the country. He traveled a lot."

Ash pulled out a pad. 'I'll just make a few notes."

Susan sighed. "We'd… well you know… made love… and it was after."

"What time?" Ash prodded.

"Uhm about 11:30, I think. And Jimmy was out cold, he did that; I guess I wore him out," she beamed. "And I heard a noise, sort of a scraping sound. Like metal on metal. It was so strange because when I went to Jimmy's home they were doing all that road work at night – a major fix up – and I would have recognized it as a lorry or a digger; something like that."

Scribbs spoke, "But it wasn't equipment as you told Mr. Wilshire it was a creaking noise."

"Oh? Did I?" She nibbled on a perfectly polished fingernail for an instant. "Suppose I did. A creak and then I heard footsteps."

Ash and Scribbs glanced at each other. Scribbs leaned forward and lowered her voice. "Susan we're not trying to upset you just tell us what happened."

"You know when you go into a dark room and get a funny feeling someone is there? That's what I felt even before I heard footsteps. A… a man crept into the bedroom – in the dark. There wasn't a light on in the place, and he just stood there, at the foot of the bed, like a ghost."

Scribbs took her hand. "Then what?"

"He…" she gulped, "He raised something in his hand, over his head, and went to Jimmy's side of the bed. But he stopped right there, dropped his arm and left."

"Had you made a noise at all?" Kate asked. "Yelled or screamed?"

"No, not really, but I was so frightened, I couldn't, just couldn't get any air. I scrunched down a bit, got my mouth under the covers and pretended to snore." Susan's body began to shake. "I closed my eyes and when I looked again he was gone."

Scribbs patted her hand. "It must have been frightening."

The coffee and tea came just then and they had to stop speaking until the waiter had left.

"So, tall, short, fat, or thin? This person; a man you called him." Scribbs asked.

Susan shook her head. "I told you it was _dark_, just enough light to seem dim shapes; that's all."

Kate asked her, "Do you have any idea what they were doing?"

She shook her head. "No, but I did hear that had been some break-ins and I thought that's what it was about." Susan tried to pick up her coffee but her hand shook so much she couldn't hold the china. "Silly me," she apologized. "Sorry."

Scribbs picked up the thread. "What did Mr. Moore, that is, _Jimmy_, think about it?"

"Oh, he laughed it off."

Scribbs looked down at her notepad. "He found the open window."

Susan nodded. "It wasn't closed properly for the frame was all messed about."

"Mrs. Ostercroft," Kate cleared her throat. "Where was your husband that night?"

"Oh, he was at the hospital – he attends there and is on a regular schedule – often stays very late."

"So while your husband was working late you'd see Jimmy," Scribbs said.

"You make it sound very tawdry," Susan sniffled.

Ash shook her head. "We didn't call it anything, Susan."

"Thursdays… always on a Thursday." Susan sat up straighter. "Do you think Thomas was involved?"

"Thank you for your time, Mrs. Ostercroft," Scribbs told her as she rose. "I think we're done here."

Susan jumped to her feet. "Are you saying that my husband had something to do with the break-in?"

Ash stood up and smiled at her. "Goodbye, Mrs. Ostercroft. Thank you for the coffee," she said, took two steps and then turned around. "Does your husband ride a bike?"

"Oh, yes. He was quite a road warrior in college. He does not ride as much now."

Scribbs nearly shouted, "So he still has a bike?"

"Yes," Susan nodded. "Keeps it in the shed."


	20. Chapter 20

Ash walked out of the restaurant, for she had stopped to use the loo, and found Emma leaning against the fender of their car. "Well?"

Scribbs shook her head. "Did you buy that in there? She's lied to us before."

Ash shook her head. "Hard to say."

Scribbs opened the car door and got in as Ash climbed in the passenger side. Ash was buckling up when Scribbs yelled, "Wait a minute!" She leaped out and ran back inside.

"What now, Scribbs?" Kate said but in a minute or two Scribbs came out grinning.

"Sorry," she told Kate, "had to clear that up."

"Oh?"

"Timing – who was where and when – was driving me bonkers. Susan claims that she and her hubby did not necessarily check in with each other about comings and goings. She admitted that her husband had been sleeping in the spare room for a few months. Her excuse was her migraines – so no telling if she knew when he got in, _or_ if he knew that she was out."

"But she even slept over some nights."

"That's the other thing I pried out of her," Scribbs grinned. "Susan did admit that her excuse on some of those sleepovers with Moore. She'd mention that she would be going out with friends. Then she'd tell him she got a giant migraine and had to stay with the friend."

Ash shook her head. "Bed hopping _par excellence_. No wonder their marriage is fragile. Reminds me of the wife swappers."

Scribbs screwed her face up. "That was really messed up." They were referring to the neighborhood where everyone slept with everyone. "But about the burglar?"

"Had to be her husband."

"And he was doing the break-ins."

Scribbs shook her head _no_. "Why? The items stolen were all petty; mostly cash, a couple of vases and two DVD players."

"Cash is easy to get rid of."

"And the DVD tackle?"

"Dustbin, likely," Ash sighed. "Dumped them somewhere."

Scribbs dug out her mobile. "Let's get Weatherall on the line." She dialed the pathologist's number. "Doc? This is Scribbs."

Weatherall said, "Hey, I was gonna call you. Swing by the morgue, if you would. Mr. Moore is giving us a testimony."

On the drive to the station Ash was chewing on her lip. "Layers upon layers of lies and deceit leavened with emotional tragedies."

Scribbs laughed. "It's what makes suburbia so interesting, don't you think? A healthy layer cake of intrigue."

Sighing, Ash replied, "Why can't we be rational creatures?"

"If you want rational you'd better be a sci-fi character on the telly with no emotions."

"Not likely – not on this planet."

"I'm thinking hormones," Scribbs smirked at Ash.

"What you mean?"

"I mean you, me, Susan, her hubby, the murder victim; all our hormones bubbling and boiling."

"Keep _my_ hormones out of this Scribbs."

"Just making conversation and speaking of which what really happened to you in Bath?"

Ash shook her head. "Not going there."

"Come on Ash, you about bit my head off, thank you very much, first morning you got back. The guy must be a dreamboat."

"Scribbs!"

"Probably rolling in dough too. Made a pile doing surgery then hauled his cash down to Cornwall to hide it."

Ash crossed her arms and looked away from Scribbs. "I _don't_ want to talk about it."

Scribbs wasn't letting Ash off this easy. "Facts – the guy is a doctor, former surgeon, left surgery behind, becomes a GP in a little teeny village on the coast. Maybe he has a thing for seagulls or he's trying to corner the monkfish market."

Ash's mouth dropped open. "Now you're way off base _and_ you're digging. Stop."

"He meets you, chats you up that the apple of his eye happens to look and sound like you, sorry; _former_ apple of his eye."

Ash shook her head. "Stop right there."

"Hormones dear Kate. You were missing Michael and this Martin fellow was right there to stop up the gap."

"Not like that at all!" Ash yelled.

Scribbs turned onto the street where the police station was. "Time to come clean partner."

"Can we pay attention to this murder?"

"Why has being at work ever stopped us from chatting like this?"

"This is not a chat, Scribbs; you're playing bloody Inquisitor!"

Emma parked the car and opened her door. "Wait until I get out the red-hot pincers," she giggled.

Inside the morgue they each popped a strong breath mint into their mouths. "I hate this smell," Emma said, waving her hand by her nose.

"Comes with the territory mate," Ash responded.

They found Weatherall and one of his techs dressed in white disposable coats taking pictures of the nude body of an old woman. "Scribbs, Ash," the doctor said. He handed the camera to the tech. "Finish this. Don't miss anything and make sure you get those sores."

Emma wrinkled her nose. "Sounds horrid."

"Bed sores. It's a possible abuse case, along with overmedication," he said sadly, "the lot of old age in some cases."

"You told Scribbs you have something," Ash said.

Weatherall perked up. "Yes, I do. Your Mr. Moore has something I'd not seen before. Let's take a look at him." He stripped off his purple gloves and binned them.

He led them around the corner and pulled open a morgue drawer with a sheeted formed inside. "Here's our boy."

Scribbs recoiled as the drawer came out all the way. "I don't see how you can stand it."

"This?" Weatherall asked. "It's my job and I'm as much a detective as you are."

"Sorry, doctor," Ash told him. "What have you found?"

Weatherall brightened even more. "It was the thought about potassium chloride; got it from you Ash."

"Oh?"

Weatherall pulled on new gloves and peeled back the sheet over the corpse's feet. "You told me he was shoeless when they found him."

"Just his socks. Weird," Scribbs answered.

"Shoes were in his car," Ash answered, "on the passenger side."

"Well look," he pointed to the feet which had been dissected then taped back together. "See it?"

"All I see is where you sliced him," Scribbs said grumpily. "Like I told you can't see how you stand it."

Ash rolled her eyes at Scribbs. "What are we _supposed_ to be seeing?"

Weatherall smiled immensely. "Between the great and second toe of both feet we found a puncture wound."

Scribbs answered. "A wound."

"Needle mark," the pathologist said. He pulled the blue-gray tinged toes apart. "Our dissection showed a track about a centimeter long in each foot and from the tissue debris in the left foot I'd swear the same needle was used."

"He was injected?" Ash replied scrutinizing a little red dot which contrasted with the skin.

"Yes. Now I can't say for certain what it was, but the tissues at the ends of the injection sites show cellular dehydration and the capillaries looked inflamed from some toxic substance."

"Meaning?" Scribbs asked.

Weatherall carefully put down the cold foot, pulled the sheet to cover both feet then rolled the drawer back into the refrigerator. "This man was murdered with some substance which caused the cells to dehydrate. Ever put a salt-water fish into fresh water? A live one? Opposite of that effect."

Scribbs wrinkled her nose at him. "You are morbid."

"Scribbs let the man finish," Ash admonished her.

Weatherall lead them to a white board on the wall and ditched his gloves before he took up a black marker. "Here are cells in the body," he sketched small circles bunched together. "Happy little cells, each cell wall holding inside the necessary fluids to keep the cell alive." He put down the black marker and picked up a blue one. "Now, there is an osmotic balance which must be maintained. Let's say that a salt – maybe even potassium chloride – is injected near these little guys."

Next he sketched waves of blue washing over the cells. "Now the cellular osmotic pressure changes. Water will be pulled out of the cells trying to dilute the concentrated salts outside each cell, thereby causing cells to shrink and shrivel."

He went back to the black marker and redrew cells looking much like very wrinkled raisins. "Sorry for the cell biology lecture, but…" he jabbed at the board, "_if_ this salt _was_ potassium chloride, it would rapidly be carried through the body, and if the dosage was large enough? Boom! Heart stops and one dead man results."

Scribbs asked him, "Wouldn't that amount of K C whatever show up on the tox screens?"

He shook his head. "No. Potassium chloride is a natural substance. In this case whoever did this knew _exactly_ which drug to pick and _how_ to hide it. Moore had been drinking so a dose to stop his heart would not be that large. More than a few cc's perhaps as much as a standard syringe which holds 50ccs." He sighed. "I think the murder shot him up once, refiled the syringe and shot him in the other foot."

"He jabbed him twice," Scribbs mused. "No chance it was an accident then."

Weatherall grinned at the detectives. "Definitely _not_ an accident."

Ash looked at the white board. "Premeditated murder."

Weatherall laughed. "Murder usually is."

Ash patted his shoulder. "Thanks Doc."

He smiled. "My pleasure."

Scribbs looked from the doctor to the white board and shivered. "We'll have to call you Sherlock."

"How about Dr. Watson?" he answered.

Scribbs and Ash stood outside the morgue rubbing their arms to warm up. Scribbs grinned at her partner. "Now we have a motive and the weapon. Jealousy and potassium chloride."

Ash smiled in return. "Now we just need to tie it all together."

Might be easier than getting the truth out of you Ash, Scribbs thought, but she didn't say it.


	21. Chapter 21

DCI Paul Sullivan leaned back in his desk chair, set his elbows on the padded arms and carefully put his finger tips together. "You think you can connect all the dots?" he was looking directly at the ladies who had given him a full run down on the Moore case but now he was punching holes in their logic. Ash and Scribbs were good at this; _very_ good.

A battle of logic and intuition was always waged between these two, for Ash was very analytical, almost emotionless at times, when she dug into an investigation and Scribbs was street smart and very instinctive, an excellent foil to her colleague. He knew that these two would argue back and forth until they had all the angles figured out. "_All_ the dots?" he repeated.

Looking at the detectives he knew they were good, even if they contrasted in thinking processes and appearance. Scribbs was wearing some iridescently glaring blouse with corduroys and purple trainers while Ash was wearing a white blouse, gray jumper, tailored trousers and shiny black boots. Her chestnut hair was carefully arranged atop her head; part of her trademark while Scribbs' blonde mop looked like it had been hacked with garden shears and messily parted on one side, with schoolgirl plastic clips holding the mess in place. Not at all two peas in a pod but they meshed like the gears of a fine watch in cases of murder.

It was mid-morning and he had far too many things ion his schedule but when Ash and Scribbs asked he immediately made room for them. "All of them?"

Scribbs smiled at the Boss. "We have a pretty good case. _One_ - our old friend jealously."

Ash added, "Wayward wife and _two_, the perpetrator is a doctor and clearly knows how to give an injection. Potassium chloride Dr. Weatherall is pretty certain."

"Good tip you came up with that one Ash," threw out Scribbs.

"Studying poisoning, DI Ashurst?" the Boss asked.

Ash ducked her head in embarrassment. "No, an… _acquaintance_… mentioned that KCl in large doses can kill."

"I see," the Boss said, "So how do the killer and the victim meet? Ostercroft certainly didn't email this substance to the victim."

Ash exhaled softly. "We haven't made that connection, Boss. But we do know that Moore and Ostercroft had business dealings. The victim supplied the doctor with medical drugs."

"Tell me again about the break-ins."

Scribbs screwed up her face. "Same mode of entry; all three. A window was jimmied open."

The Boss shook his head. "But you haven't put Ostercroft at those houses _or_ at the closed RAF field, assuming the victim was killed out there."

"No, not yet," Ash said. "But it must be him!"

Sullivan shook his head. "Sorry, Ash, but I don't think that magical thinking will stand up in court."

Scribbs grinned. "But Boss, we've got so much."

"Not nearly enough," the Boss muttered. He dropped has hands and stood up. "But good work so far. Keep at it."

Scribbs and Ash stood. "Thanks Boss," they said in unison.

"Now," Sullivan coughed," you did say that these robberies were all small stuff. Why's that?"

Ash sighed. "All of them were a few days apart, but the last - where _nothing_ was stolen - was the last."

Sullivan nodded. "Ah, that was Wilshire's house, right? Where the victim was spending the night with Mrs. Ostercroft." He got an idea. "What if robbery wasn't the motive the last time?"

Scribbs chuckled. "That's what I've been thinking."

The Boss nodded. "And?"

Ash replied, "Mrs. Ostercroft says that it was dark; too dark to see who it was. She claims she has no idea who came into that bedroom that night."

"But what if it _was_ someone she knew? Would she tell you?" Sullivan ruminated. "Lots of reasons she'd hide the truth."

"We'll work on it, Boss," Ash told him.

"Fine. But about the tracks? Both foot and bicycle?"

Scribbs looked back at him for she'd gone to the office door. "Footprints from robberies and next to the pond where the body was found _are_ the same. Weatherall's team confirmed that."

The Boss smiled at the team. "I think you need to find those shoes. Why not ask the doctor?"

In the hall Emma held her head in her hands. "I know we don't have enough but I sure had hoped that the Boss would let us go ahead."

"You know he's right Scribbs," Ash responded. "The Boss never misses a trick."

"But for one thing," Scribbs muttered.

"What?"

"He said ask the _doctor_ about shoes… but I think that's _wrong_. I think we ought to ask his wife."

Ash nodded. "Let's go visit their house."

"Let's stop at _The Peasant_ once more," Scribbs said. "I have a hunch."

"Why? The coffee wasn't that good."

"Follow along, dear Kate. Just come with me."

The maître d's face fell when he saw them come in his establishment, but he recovered quickly. "Good afternoon. Two?"

Scribbs got out her badge and displayed it. "DI Scribbins and DI Ashurst; Middleford CID," she told him quietly. "Might there be somewhere we can talk?"

"What's wrong?" the man asked.

Ash smiled. "Somewhere we might talk?"

He grudgingly took them to a back office after assigning a waiter to man his post by the door. "Now," he sighed. "How can the restaurant help the Police?"

"Your name?"

"Peter Irvine," he answered. "Worked here for two years and we _never_ ever had a bit of trouble with the Bill."

Emma smiled. "Well, that's good."

Ash told him, "We're investigating whether two men happened to eat here last week; on Thursday night and it might have been late in the evening."

Irvine spread his hands. "We are always busy, it's impossible to tell!"

Scribbs opened an envelope and showed him a picture of the deceased. "This man."

Irvine's eyes started from his head. "I think so. Yes, this is…" he snapped his fingers. "Moore. James Moore. He comes here often, sometimes with Mrs. Ostercroft and also with business people. He was a nice man, so sad to hear what happened." He looked around, even though only the three of them were in the broom-closet sized office. "I think Moore and Mrs. Ostercroft were…" he finished by making smacking noises with his lips.

"But _that_ night," Ash prodded, "was he here?"

He pursed his lips. "We can find out." He turned to a computer and typed a few keys, while he muttered vague threats to the PC about its glacial slowness. "Yes. I can see he did eat here; a party of two. The credit receipt shows their meal was rung up at 10:45."

"May we have a printout of that?" Ash snapped her fingers.

Irvine blinked. "Anything for the Middleford CID. You didn't like our coffee yesterday?"

Scribbs grinned at him. "It was fine but we were busy. Had to toddle off."

That made him laugh. "On your purple trainers."

Scribbs grinned some more. "Oh you noticed."

"Makes an interesting contrast with your lime-green coat."

Ash cleared her throat. "Printout?"

"Sorry." In a moment he handed them a sheet of paper with the Moore's name and credit card data, plus the amount. "I remember now; Moore and an older man. Fiftyish or older who looked tired I recall."

Ash took the envelope away from Scribbs and pulled out the other photo inside. "Was it this man?"

Irvine nodded. "Yes. He kept checking his watch all the while and Mr. Moore drank a lot of wine – he _was_ a connoisseur; but two bottles all by himself?"

"This man," Ash tapped the photograph of a distinguished man in a dark coat and tie, "did he drink?"

"No. Just water. It was very late, almost closing and they were our last customers. I was at the door dealing with the valet; they can be so unreliable, when Moore and this man came outside. Moore was slurring his words and I was glad that the other man took his keys away and drove Mr. Moore's car for him. I suppose they came here together."

Scribbs grinned at Ash. "Got him," she whispered.

"What's that?" Irvine asked.

"Nothing," answered Ash. "Thank you for your time."

Ash and Scribbs got into their police car and they looked at satisfaction at the photo Ash held; a photo taken from the local hospital website of their directors. The face of Dr. Thomas Ostercroft looked up at them confidently.


	22. Chapter 22

Martin tried to slow his racing heart but he knew why it had gone manic again. The way in which Kate moved her head flicking her ponytail about did him in. He followed her into the next area which was a gloomy area where visitors to the Baths in ancient days would have changed or had a good steam and a rub down.

Kate looked back at him as he stopped walking. "You alright?"

Am I alright? Martin wondered. No definitely not.

"So, they actually had heated floors," Kate tried to start a conversation.

"Yes," Martin took a swift glance at his guidebook. "A hypocaust. They passed heated gases from a fire through a crypt below the floor."

Kate nodded. Why, she wondered, did most things he said come out like a lecture?

"The walls were hollow as well so the heated air could rise and further warm the enclosed space."

Kate grinned at him. Here comes a lecture.

"What?" Martin said.

"Nothing. So warm water and air; sounds lovely."

"Considering the average person did not have central heating of any kind this was quite a system."

Kate wrinkled her nose. "Bathing wasn't so common then."

"No," Martin replied.

"They must have smelled rather fragrant."

Martin bobbed his head. "Lice were endemic in those days. Head, body, and, uh, pubic," he muttered.

Kate raised her eyebrows. "Didn't know that but thanks."

"But soap was known. In fact the word soap comes from the Latin _sapo_. Soap is easily made with oils, animal fats, and alkali. Unfortunately most home brewed soap included a good dose of alkali from wood ashes which is very caustic as well as toxic unless one is careful."

Kate nodded. "Right. Let's move on."

The next passages were more hypocausts and a cold plunge pool which was illuminated making the water glow showing a myriad of coins tossed into it. "So a good dip into the cold, eh?" Kate muttered. "I wonder if they went from cold to hot or hot to cold?"

"Rather like Nordic peoples who take sweat baths then jump into a cold stream or in winter roll in snow."

Kate rubbed her arms. "Makes me ill to even think about it."

Martin pursed his lips know he was just speaking rubbish; that is it _wasn't_ rubbish, it was facts – all facts. But he knew _what_ he was doing _and_ why.

Kate reached out and touched his elbow. "Something wrong?"

Martin shook himself when he realized Kate was speaking and he felt her hand on his arm. "I…" he glanced at his watch. "They'll be closing soon."

"Yeah," Kate answered. She wasn't exactly displeased that Martin had shown up suddenly; in fact she had been chuffed he'd appeared. "Suppose so."

Martin walked ahead so she followed him. A sign on the wall above a water fountain offered a drink of the famous spa waters.

"Care to try it?" Kate asked him.

Martin trembled. "God, no."

Kate took a paper cup, out it under the tap and filled it partway. The contents were a bit murky but she hoisted it to Martin. "Down the hatch." Without thinking she threw back her head and dumped the three ounces of spring water down her throat more to show how she was not afraid.

Martin watched as she swallowed, suppressing a showing of his revulsion.

"Not bad," she smacked her lips. "A bit… mineral-ly."

"I don't believe that's a word."

Kate crumpled the cup, binned it and took his arm. "Now what shall we do?"

Martin rolled his eyes at what he saw ahead. "God, a gift shop," he said in derision.

Yes there was a gift shop of the end of the tour like so many exhibits, museums, and churches across the country. Kate looked around the room which displayed mugs, tea towels, calendars, post cards, books, and artwork. "Oh dear."

Kate had her head turned looking at rubber ducks wearing Roman helmets and breastplates so Martin headed for the door when he saw she wasn't looking. She'd just picked up a jar of bath salts when she realized he'd done a skip.

Martin got outside the doors, went down two steps and stopped, trying to catch a breath. The Christmas Market was splayed before him, still going like gangbusters and the noise hit him like a wave. There was music as well, buskers, children and adults laughing, and in somewhere he could swear he heard a merry-go-round. It was like Portwenn on Harbor Day. All that was missing was Bert and Al, Penhale, the school children plus their Head Teacher. He sighed. "That's past you fool," he muttered. "Done and gone like a blown candle." At _least_ the Head Teacher part. There would be other Harbor Days, Fishing Fleet Days, and Lifeboat Fetes, but _Louisa_ had left. She was gone and he'd ruined the whole thing – which was all his fault.

He actually felt ill for a moment and the fine fish dinner he'd eaten almost spewed up and out, but he swallowed it back down. He had felt a bit of panic welling inside for some time and he'd tried very hard to damp down the feeling. Was it the smell of sulphate which had bothered him? That smell, as well as a tangy metallic odor, had tickled his nose the entire time he was near any water inside the exhibit. Was that it? Or was it? he paused. The warm environment, high humidity, and chemical traces _might_ remind him of something else.

He tried to ignore the hub-bub of the Christmas Market, now fully lit up in the Saturday night time. Calm yourself he thought, try to stay calm. Take deep cleansing breaths, ignore the sights and sounds, and think about something concrete – like staring at the stone pavement in front of him.

The door opened and he realized Kate was standing next to him. "I didn't know you'd gone."

He waved his hand in front of his nose. "Stinks in there."

"Bit of a metallic smell, yes." That was it – it reminded him of blood. Bright red blood on his gloves, on the scalpel, on the surgical clamps and towels. He took a deep breath of cold December air then blew it out.

Kate breathed deep for she didn't want things to be over just yet. "Well now what?"

"Sorry," Martin muttered. "Didn't mean to…" he waved a hand at the closed doors. "If you wish to shop in there, don't let me… uhm, stop you."

"No I'm fine – did my shopping. Oh, by the way…" she was reaching into her handbag when Martin jumped.

He jerked up his arm and viewed at his watch. "Nearly nine."

Kate wondered if it was past his _bedtime_. "Not _that_ late," she told him. Martin stepped off the lowest step so Kate followed, nearly getting bowled over by a fat man rushing past.

"Have a care!" Martin yelled after him. "Ass!"

"Martin!" Kate said sharply. "I'm fine. Really."

The way she scolded him made his heart leap so he turned his head slightly and just watched her.

She saw the way he turned and stared and she knew he was seeing _her_. "I _am_ fine."

He closed his eyes for a moment but when they snapped open she got a flash of intensity. "I can see that."

She reached back and stroked her glossy hair. "I could do with a glass of wine. You?"


	23. Chapter 23

Kate watched while a strange series of things happened to Martin's expression. He looked away his hands waving irresolutely in the air, and then he gaped at the ground, dipped his head to one side with a squint, and finally took on a scowl. When she feared he might say no, he looked right at her and focused on her face nodding slightly. "Uhm, I could. Yes."

Kate buttoned her coat against the chill and slipped her gloves on for now there was a hint of sleet in the air. "Good."

Martin's eyes waved from side to side briefly. "Where?"

Kate smiled. "We'll find somewhere." She took two steps and Martin followed, somewhat sheepishly.

"So…" Kate said, "maybe we should get away from the square? Likely to find someplace quiet."

Martin followed along trying to not feel so weird that he was with a woman who was not Louisa, but looked like Louisa. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Uhm… why the police?"

"I think told you. I like a mystery, or least solving them."

Martin grunted. "Our village policeman couldn't find his nose with a road map, if it was missing."

Kate laughed. "He's a PC – police constable?"

"Portwenn hardly merits much else. No major crimes of any kind," he sighed.

"Villages can be that way."

He grunted. "Everyone knows everyone and the gossips usually have the news before Penhale gets it."

"Ah, but gossip is not quite accurate is it? Like playing Russian scandal at a party the message gets garbled."

Martin had no idea what she meant. "Russians?"

Kate sighed knowing that Martin was likely not the sort to have ever played. "Party game. You take a ring of people. One whispers into another's ear some harmless message like 'Dorothy has droopy drawers and drinks wine all day.' The message is passed on until it comes back to the source; usually much mangled."

"I… see," he said. "In a small village we have a gaggle of teenage girls that wander about making smarmy comments about people, usually based on their erroneous observations or on gossip." He was the target of the girl-pack too many times and with Louisa leaving and their non-marriage the girls had gotten extremely persistent, even pushing scathing notes through his mail flap. "Something like that game you mention."

Kate was leading him well away from the cathedral square having no real idea where she was going other then north. Finally she stopped for a recon and down a side street saw a pub sign. "There we go." She took his hand and tugged him a hundred feet to the place. Surprisingly it wasn't crowded from what she saw through the steaming windows. "This will do."

It was much like the spot Martin had eaten dinner but for a large Christmas tree that dominated the front room, flashing LED strings over every doorway and pine ropes were draped on each wall.

Fortunately it wasn't crowded or too noisy so Kate took him to a table and sat him down. "You?"

"Uhm… what?"

"To drink?"

Martin looked at the chalkboard over the bar. "Mulled cider."

"Right," Kate sighed. "Should have figured _not_ a drinker," she muttered to herself as she went to the bar.

The barman gave her a bright smile as she told him, "A mulled cider and a red wine."

"House okay?" the man held up a bottle. "Or got a nice syrah."

"Syrah's fine." Kate watched as he poured and then she paid.

Kate found Martin rubbing his hands together when she brought their drinks to the table. "This hot cider should warm you up."

Martin laced his large hands around the cider glass and tried to relax but he was anything but. On the walk here he wondered what she was thinking or more important what he was thinking. Being with Kate generated all the wrong reactions but just seeing her, talking with her, smelling her… he checked that idea abruptly. Have a care Ellingham he scolded himself; have a bloody care! Just pack in any of _those_ ideas!

Kate slipped off her coat and adjusted the neckline of her turtleneck, but kept her scarf around her shoulders. She took up her wine glass and held it towards him.

Martin lifted his cider. "Thank you."

Kate smiled and took a sip which was good. "Not a wine drinker?"

Martin shook his head. "No." The memory of being sick the last time he'd drunk wine brought an almost physical pain. It was the time he and Louisa drank over two bottles of wine; the bottle his dad had left in surgery as well as a bottle and more of the wine Louisa had bought. The fallout the next day was painful both from being ill and being the butt of too many jokes along with pointed comments from villagers.

That was a very strange night and day, but it marked the very moment he'd told Louisa that he loved her, right from the very first, and she'd told him the same. Then the next day he acted a total fool in his nervousness and accused her of suffering from erotomania. The slap she gave him he soundly deserved – he knew that now – and he really regretted that ridiculous diagnosis.

"Ah." Kate fidgeted with her scarf wondering what in the world she was doing here with Martin. But there was something about him that drew her in and she was trying to figure why she felt that way.

Martin sipped his cider after blowing on it for it was hot enough to sear flesh. "Problem?"

Kate shook her head no but stopped. "Yeah."

Martin looked at her for a long silent minute and then sighed. "Right."

"This is too…" she shrugged, "_odd_, don't you think?"

He squared his shoulders. "Right. I ought to go." He started to push his chair back but she stopped him.

"No, _no_; stay." She played with the stem of her glass. "But…"

His shoulders drooped. "We're a couple of miserable people."

She chuckled. "At least together we are." Kate fiddled with her hair and she saw the way he watched. "Let me guess? Louisa wears her hair down."

He gulped. "Sometimes."

Kate blew out air. So I've fed into his fantasy. Great! "Martin, look, I'm not expecting anything and I hope you're not either." She wrinkled her nose. "That would be…"

"_Abnormal_. Peculiar."

"But… I was… wondering."

"Yes?"

"Two things. You said you were a surgeon but now are a GP."

"I am." He drank some cider to give his eyes something to do other than gazing at Kate like a love-starved teenager.

"You told me it was a personal choice."

She remembered! How much to tell this police detective?

Kate whispered to him, "You don't have to say."

He shook his head. "Uhm, eventually, as a surgeon, it was… difficult…"

His soft voice was interrupted right then by harsh words, a scuffle, and the unmistakable sound of breaking glass.

Martin whirled and saw a man holding a broken glass which he'd just used to bash a face in. Both striker and the strikee were bleeding – one from the face and one from his fingers where glass shards had cut him

Martin turned to Kate with a stricken expression. "Oh, God," he muttered before he got up to deal with the mess. "You!" he shouted to the barman and snapped his fingers. "Towels! NOW!" he marched into the melee for the two men were striking blows on each other.

"Stop!" Martin shouted. "Stop it!" He managed to get between them and shoved a towel into the face of the struck man. "I'm trying to stop the bleeding you idiot!" He felt his shoulder and back get punched a couple of times. "You are injured! I'm a doctor!"

"Let me at him, you bugger!" the man who was punching Martin from behind was yelling.

"He started it!" yelled the other, the one who was spraying blood from his face. He too struck out managing to punch Martin in the chest.

Martin was not a small man and he stayed upright after receiving several blows which hurt like blazes, but he kept his head out of the way of fists, at least from the front, and tried to pinion the injured man's arms.

Just then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kate Ashurst fly across the room and was amazed as she slammed the one holding the broken glass into the bar.

"You! Stop! POLICE!" she shouted.

"Gerr' off, you bitc…" that one was starting to say, but Kate neatly kneed him in the groin then added an elbow to the back when he bent double. He fell like a sack of wet cement and stayed down.

Martin grabbed the other man who was grappling with him. "Stop it you fool! You've been hurt," he got a whiff of alcohol, "and you're inebriated!"

Kate pulled the man off Martin. "You stop as well!" she stuck her badge in his face. "Police! Don't move."

The injured man quit struggling or nearly so and that gave Martin the chance to do two things.

The first was to get a second towel and hold it onto the man's nose which he could see was sliced right down to the bone.

The second was the obvious thing as he turned his head and vomited neatly on the floor, managing to avoid Kate's boots.


	24. Chapter 24

"You do that often?" Kate asked Martin as he sat on a chair sipping water.

His haunted eyes looked bleakly at her. "No."

"That's two things I'm asking; breaking up fights and the other thing."

Martin sighed. "I have a slight aversion to the sight and smell of blood."

"A slight aversion?"

He nodded slowly then took another drink. "Sometimes. And no I _don't_ make it my life's work pulling apart _dolts_ who think it is funny glassing one another in pubs."

"Miss? A word?" A uniformed officer asked and drew Kate away.

Martin watched while the medics slapped bandages on each of the two assailants, then the police booked one and cautioned the other. Stupid fools! Drinking and fighting. Idiots!

The bar man had given Martin two towels – one dampened with water. "Here you are mate. That's gonna leave a stain."

Martin dabbed at the sprinkles of blood speckling his coat, shirt and tie. "It's happened before," he muttered.

"Wot's that?" the barman asked.

Martin waved a hand. "Go away." He rose and went into the washroom to dab at the mess. In there he did his best to wipe the stains away, but in the middle he began to gag, and spent too much time recovering from dry heaves. At least stomach rumbles faded, the spasms of his esophagus died down, and he was left with a burning throat from gastric juices. He sluiced his mouth out several times until all of the taste and most of the burning was gone. Finally he made himself as presentable as he was able, then went out.

Kate finished her dealings with the officers then opened her handbag to freshen her makeup. She had finished tinting her lips when Martin emerged from the back looking warily about. She watched as he slowly came to their table.

"I should go," he told her.

"Oh."

"Sorry about the…" he jabbed a thumb at the bar behind him where blood, beer, broken glass, and vomit covered the floor.

"You didn't start it Martin."

He shrugged and put his overcoat on so Kate stood as well and got ready to venture out.

He shook his head at her. "You don't have to go."

"Suppose I want to?"

He shrugged and walked towards the door.

Kate caught up with him outside. "Back there…"

"Sorry for the uhm… thing."

Kate stopped him from walking away by putting a hand on his elbow. "Surgery."

"Yep."

"_Difficult_ you said."

"Impossible," he grunted.

Kate shook her head. "That's horrifying."

"Yes, for me it is."

"After all those years you had no problems."

"Ages."

"Then out of the blue…"

"Yes. High pressure environment, life and death decisions, and…" he gulped. "Panic attacks. Mild panic attacks. Realized they were not _cases_ – they were _people_."

Kate shook her head sadly. "I'm sad for you."

He shrugged. "You ought to feel sorrow for the patients I can no longer treat," he sighed. "God knows what ham-fisted and mutton-headed surgeon is chopping on them instead of me. Surgery was the only thing I was ever outstanding at."

"Oh, I don't know, I've a feeling you are an excellent GP."

He ducked his head and shrugged.

"And Louisa must have seen that you are special."

Martin cocked his head. His mouth gaped but nothing came out.

Kate wrinkled her nose. "Don't sell yourself short. Your shirt, however…"

"Yes. Ruined." He'd dispose of it when he returned to his hotel. "Happened before."

She touched his elbow. "And… now you are a GP."

"In a _lovely_ little, smelly seagull-infested, tiny village, where my medical advice is deliberately ignored."

"Must have been hard; a change like that."

"My aunt lives nearby and I visited there as a boy. She and my late uncle Phil had a farm. Joan still runs it, or tries to."

Kate looked back at the pub door, where the ambulance and police car were just departing with their charges. "Now what?"

He sighed. "I bin this shirt and go home tomorrow."

"Portwenn," Kate said.

"Yes."

"Where exactly?"

"Between Padstow and Tintagel."

"Why did you go charging into that mess back there?"

"The man was bleeding, both actually. But the sliced nose was far more serious than the other one's cut knuckles."

Kate shook her head.

"What?" he nearly bellowed. "Do you think I should have let him bleed all over the floor? I have a duty of care after all."

Kate reached over to straighten his crooked tie. "I can see that." Martin was rude and brash but… capable. She could see that Portwenn had a good doctor on their hands, because of his previous job. "No, I mean you might have waited a few seconds."

"So the man holding the smashed glass could carve an eye out and fling it on the floor!" Martin was upset - too upset he knew so he stopped before he'd say more. This was exactly what had driven Louisa away. Kate likely didn't _yell_ at people. As a detective she'd not get very far in an investigation doing that. So why yell at her, other than the obvious point that she looked like Louisa? He knew why. In his head she was Louisa, but not, and all his buttons were pushed, _every_ receptor on high alert, and he so wanted to tell her… tell her that… Just what would you say to Louisa Martin?

He dug deep and knew what he would say. Louisa's wedding day note had read, in her loopy penmanship:

_Martin,_

_I am really, really sorry to say this, but I am afraid – so afraid. If we get married then what? I do love you and I know that you love me but what then?_

_We're so different and it doesn't make sense to even make a list. _

_I don't want to hurt you so I can't marry you. That would only mess things up._

_Please forgive me._

_All my love,_

_Louisa_

He re-read her note every day, until the words were permanently impressed on his brain. The words _**love**_ always jumped off the page and more than once he'd felt tears prick his eyes.

Then Louisa had left Portwenn – up to London – new job; new life.

So there was no yelling, no screaming, no smashing crockery or slamming doors. They'd parted amicably, although she'd not told him goodbye.

Martin stiffened. He knew what he ought to say to Louisa. Now not then; let the last few horrid weeks disappear like a burst soap bubble if he could say, _'I'm sorry. I'll do whatever you wish if we can be together. Move to London? I'll do it. Or you move back to Portwenn. The new Head Master is an arse and they'd have back inside a few seconds. Just… come back… please Louisa. I can't bear to be without you. Oh God, come back. I will change anything you want me to change. And I love you.'_

He looked hard at Kate, yes Kate Ashurst; not Louisa Glasson. Her eyes were a little darker, and her hair a tiny bit blacker and she liked to wear it up… So Kate, he thought, it's been fun.

"Must be hell," Kate commented. "And Martin?"

"Hm?"

He'd been far away - Kate could see that; poor man – poor little surgeon – _former_ surgeon. Must be galling as hell every day he had to take simple temperatures, examine sprains, or look at pussy tonsils. "Now what?" she asked him.

He straightened but relaxed a little. He had to let Kate go, just like he'd let Louisa go. It was no good and he knew it. And he knew that Kate knew it ended here; right now.

He shrugged. "I go home; do my job. You go home to Middleford."

Kate took his hand and laced her fingers in his. "Sorry that I'm not her. I really am," she said and meant nearly all of it; best to not totally crush his spirit. But in another time or place, well who knew? But somehow she knew this was it – finito – done and buried.

"I know that," he snapped, "and I've been an _idiot_ to chase after you; as stupid as those two fools back there."

"No Martin, I think…" Kate paused, her mind racing, thoughts of how sad he was and how uncertain she was. Michael had lost any chance with her after his cockup this week, and as for Martin, well it would _never_ work. For Kate knew that every time he would look at her, he'd be seeing Louisa.

"You miss her," she said simply.

He sighed. "It's getting late," he answered not wanting to answer.

"You do miss her, I can see that."

He cut off with a wave of his hand. "No matter."

"But you are wrong. You said back there that we're both miserable. I'm not miserable, a bit lonely maybe, but I'll get on."

Martin watched her smile grow. "You'll find someone."

"I hope you do as well."

"Once again, I was… peculiar… to assume that…"

Kate shook her head. "Not peculiar at all. I think you're very fearless," she said softly as she threw her arms around him and kissed his cheek.

**Author's note:**

**Glassing – Attacking someone in a pub or bar with a bottle, glass, or mug. Since the glass can shatter it can cause serious injuries.**


	25. Chapter 25

"Mrs. Ostercroft, might we have a word?" Scribbins asked the woman who was sleepily eyeing her and Ash from her front door.

Susan Ostercroft blinked at then slowly. "Sorry, I've just been having a lie down; I'm a bit fuzzy. What do you want?"

Smiling Ash said, "We would like to talk about your husband's bicycle. Perhaps we might have a look at the bike as well?"

"Okay." Susan pushed a lank strand of hair off her face. "Let me get a coat."

Scribbs stood next to the house rubbing her arms in the stiff breeze. "Cold out today."

Ash grinned at her. "If we get what we need I don't care how blooming cold it is."

"Aren't you cold?" Scribbs replied winding her scarf tighter around her neck.

"Freezing." Ash forced her hands deeper into her pockets, finally giving up and pulling on her gloves.

The ornate door re-opened and Susan came forth wearing a heavy coat. "Thomas keeps his bike in the shed, like I said." She bounced a heavy set of keys in her hand. "Come on."

Scribbs fell back and whispered to Ash, 'You think we ought to have gotten a warrant?"

"If she lets us look inside then we're good. Section 17." Section 17 of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act of 1984 defined when or if an officer may seize personal property while investigating a crime, especially if the item might be destroyed unless it is examined. Ash had both Sections 8 and 17 drummed into her head while in uniform and she'd not foul up this investigation for lack of care. Section 8 covered when a warrant was necessary, but in this case the Boss suggested that they go without a warrant, so as not to alarm the suspect.

"If the wife says _no_, _then_ we'll crank out a warrant," Sullivan told them before they left the station. "Just be careful. You think it will be in the shed?"

"When have we ever not been careful?" Scribbs had quipped. "And yes we do."

Sullivan nodded slowly. "He would have to be _very_ confident to keep it close."

"Why would anyone suspect him? As far as he knows Moore's death is still a mystery."

"Thanks Boss," Ash told him. "We'll let you know how it goes."

"If his bike is there, and there seems to be credible indications, what will you do?" the Boss asked.

Ash smiled. "I've got the biggest evidence bag you've ever seen in the boot. A speck of mud, or just the tyres themselves, or better yet his shoes will do the trick."

The women then turned to leave Sullivan's office. "Good hunting," the Boss said to them.

Susan led them across the huge garden to a sturdy looking shed which mirrored the brick and stucco of the ornate main house. "Don't think I've ever seen a brick shed before," Scribbs chuckled.

"Thomas and his fancies," Susan muttered. She plucked a key from her pocket, plunged it into the lock and turned it. "Wanted it to match the house."

"Mrs. Ostercroft, you _are_ willingly letting us look inside?" Scribbs asked.

"What are you looking for anyway? It's just the garden equipment and his old bike." Susan took hold of the door the handle and leaned backwards. "Fine. Yes. No problem."

Ash smiled when she saw what they needed. "Scribbs, look," she said then took out a pair of purple evidence gloves, snapped them on and then she put booties over her boots.

"Whatever are you doing?" Mrs. Ostercroft hissed.

"Please stand back. Stay out in the yard, if you please," Scribbs told her, then gloved her hands and booted her shoes. "Ash, you we right. In the shed all along."

"And a not so graceful disassembly," Ash answered.

Stuffed into a trash bin, were bits and pieces of what had once been a bicycle. It had been taken apart and the frame and handle bars sawed into short lengths. Sitting on the floor were two DVD players, three small lamps, and a small carton that looked like it contained bric-a-brac such as small vases and ashtrays.

Susan Ostercroft shook her head. "Why would Thomas cut up his bike?"

Tyres are here as well, Scribbs noticed. "When do your waste collectors come?" Scribbs asked.

Susan crossed her arms. "Tomorrow morning. And I'm sorry, I really don't understand."

Ash smiled at her, but took out her mobile and made a call. "Boss? Ashurst. Found it. In the shed; right behind his house. I think we ought to have Weatherall's folk come by for a _very_ careful recovery. Can you send a unit to secure the premises? Good."

She dropped her phone back in her handbag. "The Boss will route a patrol car here and quickly."

Scribbs was examining the bike up close. "Ash, look at this." A small canvas satchel, the kind a rider might attach to the frame or handlebars lay on a workbench which also had a vise attached and a hacksaw next to it. The satchel bulged as if something was inside. "What you think?"

"Open it," Ash replied.

Scribbs pulled the zipper tang and found a flat pack, buckled closed. "Shall I?"

Ash nodded.

"What's that?" Susan said peering from the shed opening. "What _is_ this about?"

Scribbs opened the pack and was looking at a syringe complete with capped needle, a small vial and a bottle, all of which looked to be empty.

Ash sighed. "Ah. Right."

"What's going on?" Susan Ostercroft asked. "Has Thomas done something?"

Scribbs rotated the vials so she could read the labels. "Ash, that GP you met is a bloody _genius_! Check these out."

Ash looked over Emma's shoulder and read the words '_KCl – Potassium chloride – concentrated'_ clearly printed on the vial. The label on the bottle was _'Normal saline.'_ She turned to the doctor's wife. "Mrs. Ashcroft, might you know where your husband would be just now?"

"He ought to be in his office." She checked her watch. "Half-four. He stays until seven or eight."

Scribbs took out her mobile and dialed the phone at Ostercroft's office. "Hello? I was referred to Dr. Ostercroft by my GP. Is he in this afternoon?" She nodded slowly. "Right." She snapped her phone closed. "He is there, but his receptionist says he's leaving early."

"Odd," grunted Susan. "That's not like him. Thomas is very regular in his office hours."

The tramp of heavy shoes interrupted them as two uniformed constables appeared. One was Gallimore. "Ladies, how can me and the lad here help you?" he asked in a teasing tone.

Ash smiled. "You can cordon off this shed and stay right here until Weatherall's techs get here. All this lot," she pointed to the workbench. "The bits of bike, the tyres, DVDs and these lamps, plus this carton. All of it."

Scribbs was prodding something stuck under the bench with her shoe so she bent down to see what was under there. "Bingo." She stood up holding a pair of large pedaling shoes, much worn and very muddy. "And the shoes. Officer Gallimore?" she asked the constable, for he was staring. "Is there a problem?"

Gallimore had to jerk his attention back to Scribbins the detective and not Emma the shapely woman who'd just made his blood pressure pop when she bent over. "No, got it."

Ash dusted her gloved hands. "Mrs. Ostercroft these two gentlemen will be here for a while and there will be more officers on the way. Might you stay with two of Middleford's finest until someone can go into your house with you?"

Susan Ostercroft's face now took on an anxious look. "Is this about… Jimmy?"

Scribbs answered. "Likely."

Susan pulled a wadded up tissue from a pocket and dabbed at her perfectly made up eyes. "I wondered… I _did_ wonder… Thomas has been so… _quiet_ lately; more so than he ever had been before."

Scribbs beat Ash to their car. "His office?"

"Where else?"

The doctor's office was not as crowded as on their earlier visit; just two patients were waiting.

Scribbs identified herself and Ash to the clerk at the desk. "We need to see Dr. Ostercroft immediately."

"Is this an emergency?" the young woman asked them.

"No," sighed Ash, "but we do need to see him anyway. Police business."

The clerk cleared her throat. "I'm only asking because the doctor is leaving this evening for Mexico. A trip to a conference. He is running late and …"

Ash opened the door of the doctor's inner sanctum and found Thomas Ostercroft digging into a file cabinet. "Lord. What do _you_ want?" he asked belligerently.

Scribbs followed Ash in, closed the door, and then leaned back on it, arms crossed. "Just popped in to say hello."

"I'm busy. Go away," he answered.

Ash rolled her eyes at her partner. "Doctor Ostercroft, we're going to tell you a little story."

The man sighed and slumped into his leather chair. "Okay," he said, but glanced at his watch. "Make it quick. I'm in a hurry."

Scribbs smiled at him. "It goes like this… your wife was having an affair, with James Moore, who also supplied you with medicines for your practice."

"Not this," he groaned. "I've nothing to do with Moore."

"Oh? Ash said. "So why did you meet him for dinner at a restaurant called _The Peasant_ Thursday last week?"

Ostercroft waved his hands. "I… might have forgotten… I'm a busy man. I meet with lots of people."

Scribbs chuckled at him. "The _same_ restaurant your wife asked you to meet her at the other night and you were upset as _you_ feared the staff _might_ recognize you?"

"I don't have time for this," he told them and stood up. "I must leave."

Ash glared up at him piercing him with her stare. "But no, you need the rest of the story. You found out your wife Susan was having an affair with James Moore. You decided to stop it. You thought you'd gain entry to, oh, let's say two houses, and steal small items – just to make it look like someone in Collins Grove was making a run on the neighborhood."

"Ridiculous!"

"Then on a certain Thursday, when you knew that Susan expected you would be working very late, you broke into the house where Moore was staying. I'm not certain how you found that out, but it doesn't matter. Perhaps you followed him one evening. So with a crowbar or a small jimmy you got inside the house, intended to kill him in his bed. Perhaps bang him several times on the head; make it look like a robbery gone bad."

"Oh, now you're telling fairy stories!" he moaned.

"Am I?" Ash replied.

"But," Scribbs added "You found he _wasn't_ sleeping alone. In fact it was your wife in bed with James Moore. You couldn't very well kill him and leave her as witness."

Ostercroft sat down slowly and folded his hands.

Ash went on. "I think you rode your bike to each of those houses. You likely had a backpack or some bag you could sling on your back for the things you stole."

"Like Father Christmas," quipped Scribbs. "There are a lot of bike paths around Collins Grove; quite a network of them. And who would see you? It was late at night, you didn't use your car and you could seem invisible. If anyone saw you, what of it? Just some tall man out for a ride at night. But you left evidence on the windows you jimmied open _and_ footprints in various garden beds. But you do have very large feet and your biking shoe soles are distinctive."

Ostercroft rubbed his face. "You're making this up."

"Now," sighed Ash, "here is the _really_ interesting part. You wanted to get rid of – _kill_ – James Moore. The first attempt failed with your wife as a witness, at least to a murder, not that she could know it was you. It was very dark in the bedroom she told us. So what to do? What could an endocrinologist do in a case like this?" She turned towards Scribbs.

"I don't know," shrugged Scribbs, but then she snapped her fingers. "Drugs. A good idea, right?" Emma approached his desk. "How to kill someone in a way that would be very hard, almost undetectable, to determine?"

Ash smiled next. "You took him to dinner at _The Peasant_, got him very drunk on wine and then drove away with him. He was too drunk to drive so you were doing him a favor; and what a favor! I think you must have followed him around at night, perhaps how you found out where he was staying; not his actual house. So you found he liked to go to the old RAF field. Stargazing."

Ostercroft looked straight ahead now, staring at a blank spot in the corner of the room.

Scribbs tapped on his desk to get his attention and his eyes slowly turned to her. "So there you were, at night, late, miles from anywhere and a very handy pond to simulate a drowning in."

"Yes," Ash added. "Very smart. You wanted him dead; really, dead, no doubt about it. So you parked his car near to where you had hidden your bicycle earlier. You couldn't very well just push him into the pond. He might get out or maybe he could swim. No, you _needed_ him to be already dead, or nearly so, before he went into the water." She sighed. "Injecting him between the toes was a master stroke. So _very_ smart. Who would look there? And potassium chloride would be nearly traceless; it would rapidly change into potassium ions which would muck up his heart."

Dr. Ostercroft sighed.

Scribbs took up the telling. "So into the pond with the body of poor Mr. Moore, you lace up your biking shoes, pack up your syringe at cetera and ride on home. Your wife was out cold with a migraine that Thursday night, she told us, or did _you_ drug her so she was out of your way?"

Ash smiled grimly at him. "There might be a few details we need to work out but forensic evidence will prove a charge of murder against you, Thomas Ostercroft."

"You can't prove anything!" he bellowed.

Scribbs yawned. "I figure that you planned to go home shortly, chuck your cut up bike, the shoes, and the stolen goods into the refuse bin. In the morning the waste collectors come and whisk it all away. Neat, clean and tidy. Meanwhile you'd be far away. _Mexico_ was it?"

He stood again, scowling. "I'm leaving."

Ash blocked his way. "And one more thing - I'm very certain analysis will show traces of James Moore's blood _and_ DNA on the hypodermic syringe we found in your garden shed. We also have the bottles which held the potassium chloride and saline _you used_ to kill him."

He rocked back on his heels. "I… erh… I want to speak to my solicitor."

"Fine," said Scribbs as she produced her handcuffs. "But first, Dr. Thomas Ostercroft, we're arresting you on a charge of murder in the death of James Moore." She snapped the bracelets onto his wrists. "Comfy? Good."

Ostercroft didn't resist, just perched on the edge of his desk while Scribbs went on telling him of his legal rights. His eyes now had a faraway look, almost one of resignation.

Ash patted down his pockets and removed his keys, wallet, and phone from his person. "Oh, one teeny thing I can't _quite_ figure. Why didn't you put his shoes back on his feet?"

Dr. Thomas Ostercroft looked despondently at her. "Ever try to put shoes on a dead man?"


	26. Chapter 26

He had risen early that Sunday morning in Bath, ate a reasonable breakfast and took a short walk of a few blocks. If asked he was stretching his legs but he also was wondering if he might see Kate once more. By nine o'clock though he was back at the hotel, had packed his things and deposited his case with the box room and checked out.

He stood in the doorway of the ballroom, thinking that at least he ought to sit thru several presentations, so he suffered through the typical badly written and poorly presented claptrap. Finally he heard a discourse on treatment of chronic kidney disease and one of urologic care of the elderly. Those two he actually took notes on as the information as useful.

But during those three and a half hours he replayed his time with Kate. By then he'd processed enough of his memories to separate Kate Ashurst from her double. She might look much the same as Louisa, but she was not her double in many respects. For one thing Louisa would likely never take down a drunk in a pub with knee and elbow.

By nearly one the conference ended, he received his certification papers from the organizers, and collected his things. He left the hotel, skirted the Christmas Market and found himself walking in the square where Kate had said she was staying. Her description matched the B&B and though he paused a moment, he felt very strange being there, so he quickly resumed his march to the station.

The streets were all cobblestones and houses jammed cheek by jowl and one could easily imagine it was Victorian days, except for the absence of street beggars, unwashed bodies, and deposits of horse manure on the pavement. What a horrid time of disease that must have been, he thought. "So much better now," he said to himself as pack of teen girls charged past, who might be duplicates of the Portwenn girl-gaggle.

Near two he got to the Bath Spa station after purchasing a sandwich for the train. He'd carefully pawed amongst the sandwiches displayed in the small market until he found one that was actually made on Saturday. He could abide coffee on a train but the foodstuffs he abhorred – full of useless fats and calories and God knew _when_ they'd been made.

In the station he checked the board and found his train was listed as being on time, thank the Lord. As he thought those words he turned and saw Kate Ashurst come in through the outside door.

They'd said they're goodbyes last night, such as they were, and to be honest her embrace and kiss on his cheek was still fresh in his memory. He quickly turned the other way so as to spare her embarrassment then walked up to the platform for the westbound train.

Steady on Martin, he thought, let her go. She's got her own life and you need to move on. Louisa had moved and was gone – and Kate Ashurst, despite her appearance, was not any sort of substitute for the woman he loved. Kate was Kate; Louisa was Louisa. Never the twain shall meet.

000

Kate had a lie in, a long soak in the tub across the hall, then ate a late breakfast in the cheery white-painted dining room on the ground floor. She had a long chat with her hostess for the inn was run by a mother and her adult daughter.

"Have a nice time?" the owner asked.

"Very," Kate told her as she finished her tea. "I'd love to come back some day."

"The Christmas Market is wonderful, no doubt of that, but Bath is always crowded rain or shine." The lady squinted at the bright sunlight coming in. "Looks like a fine day for you."

Kate smiled. "I've needed a break."

The hostess nodded. "I wanted to ask… none of my business. But you had a double room."

"Yes," Kate sighed, "I _was_ to be with someone, but they he broke up, no, well… _I_ broke up with him."

The older woman smiled at her. "Relationships."

"Complicated."

"I've been lucky. Married for thirty-three years, have a fine daughter, you met her, and she's married and has a son; my grandson."

Kate sipped the last of tea. "That was a very fine breakfast; more than I usually have at home."

"Well, what's the point of a holiday if you can't kick up your heels once in a while?"

"Right."

"Anything else?"

"No," Kate rose. "I'll pay now, may I? Like to visit the Abbey before I get my train."

The hostess took her card. "I'll run upstairs to my desk and get this sorted."

Kate smiled. "I've had a lovely time."

"Even on your own?"

"It was fine," Kate told her. "I did; I really did have a lovely time." She then climbed the stairs to her room, packed up her things, studiously brushed her teeth and was ready. "I _will_ come back," Kate said to her lovely room. "Promise."

The Abbey was beautiful and nearly empty for the morning service had ended. The angels climbing ladders carved on the west front, with some ascending and others descending was both whimsical and reverential. She scanned the guide she'd picked up reading how the Abbey site had been a place of worship since 757 AD. The fan-vaulting of the ceiling had been added around 1870… the pages went on and on, but Kate put the pamphlet away and just walked up and down the aisles admiring the stained glass windows, the beautiful white walls (more Bath stone) with memorials and grave markers on walls and floor.

There were many carved statues and busts dedicated to family, lovers, and even dear friends which were moving. Kate, however, was not quite certain what to make of the bare-breasted bust of one Dorothy Harvey (born 1697 - died in 1722) dedicated by her sister Catharine Churchill. Perhaps the sister had admired her late sister's breasts? It was puzzling so she mentioned this to a docent.

"Well you know, it was all part of an admiration of Roman statues," the man told her. "That one does get commented upon a lot, though," he gave her a gap-toothed grin.

Eventually Kate ran out of time, picked up her case from the B&B and scurried down to the station.

000

Monday morning, Pauline Lamb opened the door of Martin's surgery and waltzed in. "Mornin' Doc! Have a nice weekend? How was Bath? Do some shoppin'? Go to the Roman Baths? I never been but I hear they're pretty ace!"

Martin finished the coffee he was holding, turned on his heel and left for the kitchen. In a moment Pauline was at his elbow while he washed his mug.

"So…" she began, "I been buggin' Al that me and him should go up to Bath. Nice, right? Enjoy the conference? Lots of medical lingo I'd imagine."

Martin put the cup upside down on the drying rack then dried his hands. "It was…" he had to halt for visions of Kate flew through his head. On the ride back to Bodmin Parkway Sunday afternoon and his drive from the station back to Portwenn, he'd mulled over much of what had happened. He was still dazed by the experience. He'd never imagined that he'd see the image of Louisa there. Finding instead the very capable police detective was quite strange. But the experience helped him to put a bookend to his thoughts of Louisa.

"Pretty? Enchanting? Educational?" prodded his receptionist.

"Yes," he muttered, "educational."

"Oh; that all?"

Martin turned to face her. "Uhm, and… enjoyable."

Pauline chuckled as she knew the Doc was never one for small talk. "Really? Meet anybody you know up that way?"

He turned to glare at her. "We have a busy schedule - all week - let's get to it."

Pauline sighed. "You're no fun."

Martin paused on his way to his surgery but kept moving, but the face borne by two different women was fixed in my mind. "First patient!" he yelled.

"Doc?" Mr. Newcross told him after hobbling into surgery walking stiffly and using a cane. "This knee of mine is killin' me." He sat down heavily then flexed his left knee. "The right 'un ain't no better."

Martin moaned softly, yet put his doctor persona into gear. "Are you taking the anti-inflammatories I prescribed?"

"_No_ Doc, they give me crampy tummy."

Martin Ellingham sighed wondering what sort of day Kate was having. "I don't prescribe them for fun! If you don't take them how _can_ you get better? How do you _expect_ to get better?" he yelled, for it was another perfect day in Portwenn.

000

At that moment Kate was beset by her colleague who was bugging her about her weekend. "Scribbs, _enough_," she protested and thus began their investigation into the Moore murder and the break-ins of Collins Grove.

Ten days later when Dr. Ostercroft was booked into the Middleford Jail, Sullivan made it a point to find Ash and Scribbs. "Good job," he told them. "So it was the doctor after all." He sighed. "Pillar of the community…"

Scribbs scowled. "Whose first attempt to kill his wife's paramour was to crush his skull. Shame the second method worked."

The Boss turned towards Ash. "This GP you got the idea from – the potassium chloride – you should let him know it was important. Key finding I think."

Kate had been thinking about Martin; more about his situation. He was lonely, depressed, and solitary. "Uhm yes, that was a good call," she muttered. She also had been thinking about new starts. "Boss, might I have a word?"

"Oh?" Sullivan asked.

"Later, when I get a chance."

"Fine," he smiled. "Later then."

"And I'll let the GP know. Thanks Boss."

Sullivan smiled. "Not always easy to separate the chaff from the wheat. But good job. Thanks."

Scribbs smiled at her partner across their desks. "Just doing our jobs, Boss! Keeping the community safe."

"I doubt Ostercroft would have killed again," he replied.

"I'm not so certain, Boss," Ash answered him. "Might his wife have been next?"

Sullivan pursed his lips. "You never know what might happen in suburbia do you?"

Ash shook her head sadly. "No. Not at all."

The Boss walked away and Kate admired his bum under his coat until he was out of sight.

Scribbs laughed. "Ash? You gonna take the Boss's advice and call him? He's your GP."

"Scribbs, he's _not_ my GP.

Emma laughed and Kate replied in turn. "No suppose not." Scribbs crossed her arms. "Do it. Now."

Kate scowled at Scribbs. "I'll do it right now."

Scribbs leaned forward. "I'm gonna sit right here and watch you do it."

"Alright," Kate moaned but she turned to her computer and quickly located the phone number of Portwenn Surgery. She picked up her phone, took a deep breath and dialed it.

"Portwenn Surgery!" a strident female voice answered.

Suddenly Kate's throat went dry.

"Hello?" the high-pitched voice urged her.

"Ahm, yes… hello, this is DI Kate Ashurst of the Middleford Police calling."

"Police?" the voice on the line dropped to a whisper. "Is Doctor Ellingham in trouble?"

"May I please speak to the doctor?"

"You're sure the Doc's not in trouble?"

Ash answered, "Doctor Ellingham is _not_ in any trouble. Is he available? I need to speak to him."

"Uhm, yeah, okay… HEY DOC! CALL FOR YOU!" the female voice bellowed almost breaking Ash's eardrum. The voice was so loud that even Scribbs heard it.

"Nice professional presentation there," Scribbs muttered. "Cornwall?"

"Scribbs, shush."

There was a click and a male voice said in her ear, "Ellingham."

Kate froze. "Hello Dr. Ellingham, this is Kate Ashurst."

Martin's heart was suddenly banging away inside his chest. "Ah, yesss…" he stammered. "What… uhm… can I do for you?" he said cautiously.

"I wanted to call and let you know that your input to a murder investigation was very important."

"Oh?"

"You told me how potassium chloride can kill. It was an offhand comment but it was an important tip in a case I and my colleague were investigating.'

"Okay."

"We caught the man. He murdered his wife's lover. We arrested him yesterday afternoon, thanks to you." Kate heard only silence after that. "Uhm… wanted to call and say thank you."

"Yes. Thank you for informing me."

"How are you?" Kate asked brightly.

"With a patient."

"Oh," Ash froze for she'd experienced this professional side of Martin. "Well you take care, Martin."

"Yes… thank you for the call. Goodbye."

Ash found herself holding a dead line. "And that's that," she muttered.

"Problem?" Scribbs asked.

"No," Kate put down the handset and sighed. Bye Martin, have a nice life she thought, then trembled slightly.

Emma waved a hand in front of her partner's blank face. "Ash?"

"Yeah Scribbs?" Kate answered slowly.

"What _did_ happen to you in Bath?"

"Oh," Ash sighed. "Nothing much."

Scribbs grinned at her. "How many bottles of wine will it take to get the whole story?"

Ash's head snapped around to look at Scribbs. "At least one and _you're_ buying."

"And," Scribbs prodded, "what are you going to talk to the Boss about?"

Ash grinned. "We'll talk later."

In Cornwall, Martin tried to get back into the thread of the explanation of the coughing patient. "Been coughin' and hackin' - can't get no rest."

"Ahm…" Martin asked.

"You listenin' to me Doc?" the old woman asked testily.

"Yes," he snapped. "Go on," he told her but he wondered what he ought to have said to Kate.

After that patient was gone Pauline swished in, her many bracelets and necklaces janging. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," Martin grunted.

"That call was from the police. You in trouble?"

"No."

"You sure – sounded important. Is it about Louisa?'

"No. Pauline…"

"It musta been serious; the call was all the way from Middleford. You think you should call Penhale? I mean…"

"Pauline! Shut up and get out!"

When she'd left him Martin stared at the golden Buddha for a moment. God he hated Portwenn, especially now that Louisa was gone. He sighed and tried to prepare himself for the next idiot he had to examine. "Next patient!" he yelled.

It was only late that evening when Kate reached deep into her handbag and found the toy dolphin. "Oh my," she muttered. "I forgot to give it back to Martin."

**EPILOG**

The Moore case was in early December but the Earth had spun on its axis over a hundred and fifty times and now it was mid-March.

Kate and Paul Sullivan got onto the Tube heading for the British Museum and Kate found a seat on the train. Paul had to stand due to crowding but he faced her, admiring the top of her head; trademark black hair piled atop it. He'd had quite a time last night unwinding it when they got into bed at the hotel.

"You okay?" he asked her.

"Fine," she patted his knee. "Very. You?"

He smiled at her and briefly took her hand.

The Moore case was a watershed moment for Kate, but actually it was bumping into Martin Ellingham that was the impetus. She'd cast away the shackles of her past relationships, had met Sullivan for coffee one Saturday after Christmas and poured out her heart to him. Her visit to Bath and pondering over that ancient pagan god, Sulis, had made her decide on a course of action. Sulis was not the god of curses - but one of healing to her - and she hoped that Martin Ellingham felt the same.

"Look, Paul," she'd told him. "This is awkward. But…"

Sullivan had toyed with his coffee cup. He had been mystified why Ash wanted to meet for coffee on a Saturday afternoon. "Go on."

Kate leaned forward. "You're a nice man and… I… well, we… have a problem."

"We?"

"Yes," she sighed. "You – me; we."

His face went blank for a moment but then he smiled. "Oh, the kiss thing."

"More than one actually. Two, last time I checked."

"Yes," he smiled and Kate enjoyed the way his eyes crinkled up. "All in the line of duty."

"And _that's_ our _problem_," Kate said. "Duty. I'd like to know you better but… you're my boss," she shrugged. "So…"

He nodded slowly. "Yes," he sighed. "Ash, I'm…"

"Call me Kate."

"Fine, Kate. Are you saying, what? Just _what_ are you saying?"

Kate steeled herself. "Paul, I can't see you – uhm… date you – if you're my boss. That would be…"

"Not proper."

Kate leaned back and crossed her arms, biting on her lip. "There it is. And I want to – _date_ you. You know?"

Sullivan gave her a slow smile. "I… I… could ask for a transfer; so I'm not your boss. That might solve that issue."

"Oh," Kate said and smiled back. "That _would_ be nice."

Sullivan's transfer to Internal Affairs went swiftly and a few weeks after that she and Paul were a couple. Their weekend away down to London was a treat when their schedules coincided. They'd been to tour the Churchill War Rooms and were now off to the museum.

At the next station, Kate sat bolt upright when a very familiar face came aboard and sat down facing her from a few rows away. Her hair was dark and long and pulled back into a ponytail. Her dress was a green flower print and she wore a dark coat which could not be fastened as she had a pregnant belly blocking the way.

Kate drew a deep breath.

Paul glanced at her. "Everything okay? Kate?"

Kate purposefully hid behind Paul and did not catch his eye. There she was - Louisa Glasson, and she was pregnant! Oh my God! Is it Martin's baby? From the size of her belly Kate estimated about fifth months ago it had got started... so it had to be Martin's.

Kate stole another glance at Louisa and saw her dab at red-rimmed eyes. "Oh dear," she muttered when she saw that but she smiled up at Paul. "I'm fine."

"Good. Next stop is ours," Paul said, so she stood, putting her back to Louisa.

Does Martin know? Did Louisa call him? She wondered about that. What could she do? Or say? Hello, you don't know me but you're my _double_ and I've met the man you used to be engaged to? And is likely the father of your baby? No, that would be too odd – too strange. Too… the train slowed, the station was announced, doors snapped open, and Paul led her off the train.

Kate paused briefly on the platform and looked back compassionately at Louisa Glasson. Good luck lady – good luck – to _you_ and your _baby_.

Just then Louisa felt prickles down her neck, and as she turned her head, she saw a chestnut-haired woman who looked just like her, staring at her from the platform.

"Kate?" Paul called her so she took his hand, following him off the platform.

Louisa rose in astonishment, but the train doors closed and the train accelerated away. Louisa shook herself. "That was _very_ odd," she said in her soft Cornish accent, just as the baby kicked her hard.

**THE END**

**I hope that you have enjoyed this trip into the never-never land of a **_**Doc Martin**_** / **_**Murder in Suburbia**_** crossover. I always wondered what might happen if on the Venn diagram of fiction these two overlapped; so there you go.**

**A big thank you to all you readers and reviewers and also to **_**Snowsie2011**_** who helped me hugely with her description of a certain tearoom in Bath, England.**

**If you have not been to the Roman Baths or to Bath, I highly recommend making the trip. I have been there and the city is fabulous, and I can only imagine how fantastic it must be during the Christmas Market. I have fudged some of the details of the city and Roman Baths, but hope I have captured some of the flavor of this place.**

**The first name of DCI Sullivan is apparently **_**DCI**_**. Nowhere could I discover the character's name, so I christened him **_**Paul**_**.**

**I miss Ash and Scribbs from the town of Middleford, since that production ended in 2005, but am glad that we can see Ash's apparent double and alter ego on Doc Martin thru the brilliant performance of **_**Caroline Catz**_** who plays Louisa Glasson.**

**Now I lay my keyboard down and put this one to bed. It's been fun.**

**Doc Martin is owned by Buffalo Pictures. Murder in Suburbia is owned by ITV Studios Ltd. The story here in no way is intended to infringe on any of the rights of the property owners and is presented merely as an entertainment and an exercise of fanfiction.**

**Perhaps we shall meet in Portwenn or Middleford someday! Cheers!**

**Rob (**_**robspace54**_**)**


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